


there are no grapes upon the vine

by eat_crow



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, idiot plot but in a fun and sexy way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 50,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27328789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eat_crow/pseuds/eat_crow
Summary: Prince Arthur's love has been kidnapped by pirates. His father won't give him aid. His solution? Go on a heroic quest to find her, of course.Captain Emrys is caught between a rock and a hard place. Surely, the best way out of it is with a steadily growing mountain of lies.What could go wrong?
Relationships: Gwen & Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 338
Kudos: 212





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> this is for [FutureAlien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FutureAlien/pseuds/FutureAlien) who told me she'd read a fic from me that's "just banter", so i immediately went "what about an enemies to friends to lovers pirate au in the narrative style of douglas adams". i cannot tell you how my mind made that jump, but... we're here now.
> 
> the title is from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9anYqMcrADQ) bc the lyrics are accurate but so is the absolutely manic energy... plus futurealien has a [brilliant fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795699) inspired by a song from the same album, so it was only fitting.
> 
> a shout out to [one_more_page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_more_page) for being the best beta and letting me yell about this fic nonstop. you're a real one.

Some time ago, a life-time ago if you’re at the age of twenty-seven, two monarchs residing in the kingdom of Camelot wanted an heir. Unfortunate as it was, the Queen was barren. But on the bright side, they were wealthy, and they were in charge of a country, and could ask anything of anyone. 

Their wish would be granted by a crew of pirates - a title once praised and given as an endearment to the most dedicated of high-seas merchants.

Their captain was a man named Balinor.

Their first mate was a woman named Nimueh.

The rest of the crew also had names and complex inner lives, though none will be mentioned as they are of no consequence.

Balinor and Nimueh were invited into the King’s court with special instructions: find a way that the Queen may conceive.

Merchants as they were, the pirates had one simple answer.  _ What’s in it for us? _

The King promised riches beyond comparison. Mountains of gold coins that would take a fortnight to climb. Enough money to have servants to attend to the servants who attended the crew. A life free of work and full of relaxation until they lost the fight with old age. Everything they could ever hope for and more - in exchange for a cure to infertility.

The pirates scoured the Earth for a treatment. They consulted holy men, shamans, and doctors. They accumulated herbs and oils and crystals from every continent. After a year they found it fit to return and hope for the best.

Three months later, the Queen cradled her belly and celebrated her luck with her husband.

Six months after that, the Queen gave birth to a baby boy. That boy’s name is Arthur Pendragon, and he is who this story is truly about, though at that moment he was too busy drooling and coming to terms with object permanence to be of any concern.

And six months after even that, the pirates still had not been paid. The pirates did what anyone scorned in a deal would do - they stormed the castle, guns blazing.

The King met them from a balcony two stories high, with his child barricaded inside with a young girl named Morgana (who was staying in the castle while her parents voyaged across the Atlantic, and was soon to become an orphan when they never came back,) and his wife behind the glass door on that same balcony. Soldiers upon soldiers lined the battlements above. In all things the King’s arrogance outweighed his sense, and so his voice carried across the courtyard and asked them who they thought they were, opening fire on a building they knew had a Queen and her baby inside.

The pirates responded that they didn’t mean any harm to the women and children of the castle, only that they sought repayment for their long year of service and none had been given. They were completely content to leave with their guns and swords holstered as long as they also had their promised share in their hands.

To this, the King said simply, “I don’t recall a promised share.”

“Of course you do,” Balinor answered, with his hands cupped around his mouth so the King could still hear him. “The money you promised us to give your Queen a child. She has her child, we want our money.”

“I think you misunderstand, because no promise was ever written. As such, I have no intention of honoring it.”

The folly of the pirates was one that should never cause shame, and it was that they had trust. In their ignorance of the King’s ways, the pirates never asked the monarchs for their promise on paper. Aside from the child itself there was no proof a deal had even been brokered, and one can hardly hold an infant as a receipt.

In their outrage Balinor and Nimueh fired one shot each. Balinor’s shot embedded into the King’s shoulder, and he went down with a roaring cry of pain. Nimueh’s shot came just a second after, but that one second changed the world for the next two decades.

Because the King had already fallen, and the Queen was right behind him.

The shot, meant for the King’s chest, broke through the glass door and pierced the Queen’s neck. The pirates did not see her fall, and did not know that as the King screamed the name of his wife she was choking to death on her own blood. They only knew that they had little time to run before the soldiers opened fire and killed them all.

It is important to note that had Nimueh known her shot would kill the Queen she never would have fired.

This is a fact that is largely ignored. Mainly because the King found their broken contract to be very bad press, and told everyone that the pirates turned on the crown and announced themselves to be traitors before attempting to assassinate the royal family.

The world is ruled by accidents, coincidences, and plots by the very powerful. All three together lead to the newsprints the next day reading  _ King Names Pirates Enemies of the Crown _ , and not  _ King Names These Pirates Enemies of the Crown _ .

Rather than own up to its mistake the newspaper claimed this was their plan all along. And the King, sensing that a ban on  _ all _ pirates would bring him  _ his _ pirates that much faster, considered it law.

From that day forward pirates were no longer merchants and navigators. They were criminals, traitors, and otherwise people-to-be-persecuted-by-all-means-possible. This came as quite a surprise to the pirates who were away while all of this insanity took place, and upon docking at ports to sell their wares were accosted, read their crimes, and hung in the square on Saturdays after the rich were finished with their breakfast and ready for their mid-morning tea.

Balinor escaped, if only narrowly and with the help of a long-time friend. He was sent to a small fishing village and took lodging with a woman. As things often go they fell deeply in love. Unlike the Queen, she had no difficulties in the realm of fertility, and it did not take long for her to have a child. That child is Merlin Wylt, but to ease confusion he will later give himself the name Emrys.

Nimueh did not fare as well, and did not escape. Upon being caught by the King he ordered not a gallows but a pyre, and she was sentenced to burn. She did, at tea time on a Saturday, and more than one madame crinkled their noses when her ashes drifted into their cups. 

Though her fate is the cruelest, and the most undeserved, she died with her chin held high and her integrity intact. The same cannot be said for our King, who will die with his pants down and his heart broken.

How such a fate comes to pass is yet to be told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's just a prologue, but i hope you enjoyed it so far! i'll be posting twice a week, on sunday and wednesday. so i'll see you on the 4th for chapter one.
> 
> catch me on tumblr [@sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	2. a knight in shining armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Emrys meet to discuss the disappearance of Guinevere. Negotiations are made, lies are told, and our story begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo, normal chapters! i am so tired, y'all, truly. please forgive any errors in editing cause my brain's not with me right now.

If our Arthur Pendgragon has any poor qualities, and he has many, they would be the arrogance he inherited from his father and the naivety learned from a lifetime of royalty - and his belief he has neither. To mix such things with the hopeless romanticism he inherited from his mother can only lead to disaster.

That disaster is called Guinevere Smith.

Gwen is not herself a disaster. She’s actually a rather put together young woman with a talent for making her own clothing and saying the most strange things possible at the oddest of times. Her father was a blacksmith, as is her brother, and she works in the Pendragon household. 

For a very long time, she worked as Morgana’s handmaid, but a year to the day before this story is told Morgana disappeared in the night with a note that said only  _ i will not return, goodbye!  _ and as such she took on work in the kitchens.

Guinevere was Arthur’s first love. He daydreamed of her brown eyes, her full lips, her curly brown hair. He liked her kindness and her humor, that she wasn't a doormat, and that she treated him like a person before she treated him like a prince. He found her to be aphrodite, a vision of love and beauty. 

She found him to be a very good friend.

He presented her with flowers when his father’s back was turned, and he pestered her with his wishes to court her when they found themselves alone - though the fact that it could never be made Guinevere think it was one of his many jokes. 

There was always something a little empty, a little distant, in the depths of those brown eyes, though he did not mind. She had not been the same since Morgana’s departure. She cried often and slept little. Oftentimes people would find her dazed, looking out over the blue ocean, rubbing her thumb over a gold necklace clasped with a hand and dagger. It was a gift from Morgana given only days before she disappeared. When asked what she was looking for she would turn her back to the ports and say, “I’m not quite sure yet. But I’ll know when I see it.”

This was a lie, but not one she knew would be so. She did not know she found what she was looking for when it came upon her.

However, that’s not entirely her own fault. After all, the men who snatched her were hired to collect her, but were not hired to be gentle in any regard. Any woman in her right mind would scream and put up a fight if a gang of men twice her size picked her up and carried her off in the middle of a purchase at the market.

Every account said something different about the amount of men, or how large they were, or what they sounded like as they berated her for making their lives difficult.

The only thing every witness could agree on was that it had been  _ pirates _ who took Guinevere Smith.

Arthur, ever the self idealized hero, believed it to be his responsibility to save her, to bring his love back home.

His father, the king, did not hold that same belief.

“She’s only a maid, Arthur,” he said, not even bothering to look up from the work at his desk. Reports upon reports of the welfare of the kingdom and several letters from lords asking horribly selfish questions like if he could ease up on the taxes, just a little bit. “What do you expect me to do for her - give her a queen’s treatment?”

“She isn’t just a maid, she’s--” Arthur stopped himself before he could even begin. Years with his father taught him exactly when to keep his mouth closed. “Guinevere has worked in our household for years now. There are few people who deserve our respect as she does.”

“And she will be sorely missed,” the king said, “but I'll take no action on her part. It would do you well to learn this lesson now; it's simply not worth what it will take to bring her back.”

Arthur bowed and made his leave, though his mind boiled at his father’s dismissal. He did not wish to anger his father by pressing further. Any other argument would only lead to accusations of disrespect and a punishment far too heavy for the crime. When Morgana lived in the castle walls she believed to back down was a self betrayal, a loss of dignity. Arthur found that in all things relating to the king it was easier to placate him with lies and go behind his back.

Two weeks later, Arthur Pendragon leaves in the night with nothing but a sword and a hefty purse of gold.

  
  


He makes his way down to the red light district, a place once preyed on in excess by the authorities and now ignored in favor of hunting pirates. There are few men who know that because of this exact change in attitude the red light district is a sanctuary for any pirate crazy enough to take shelter in Camelot. 

This works in Arthur’s favor. He’s looking for someone certifiably insane - a man who’s stood only a hair’s breadth from Arthur and gotten out alive, who holds no fear of the king. Someone Arthur trusts only because he knows he will always betray him without failure. 

The door to _The_ _Rising Sun_ slams open as someone is thrown out of it. He tumbles out onto the street. The grime of the cobblestones smears on his face and jacket. A woman with her chemise fallen down around her hips shouts at him to not come back unless he can pay his tab, and the man responds only with a drunken groan. Arthur catches the door before it shuts completely and jumps over the step at the doorway.

Drunken patrons fill the tavern in various states of undress. The air is heavy with alcohol and sex. A man in the corner sings every other verse of a sea shanty as he kisses the neck of a giggling woman in his lap. She takes sips from a bottle of rum and brings the bottle to his lips when he tilts his head back for a taste.

Arthur, in his pressed tunic and polished boots, feels very much out of place. Being a royal of Camelot in a tavern filled with drunk and armed pirates it would do more to feel afraid, but his arrogance has already been mentioned.

As expected Arthur finds the man he’s looking for sitting in the corner of the tavern at a table covered in empty bottles, though not all of them are his own. He sits back against the wall with his hat down over his eyes and his tunic untucked from the front of his unbuckled trousers. Arthur looks down his nose at the sight before him. He unsheathes his rapier and knocks it twice on the table where this man sits.

This man is the self-named Emrys, and as all pirates should he hates Arthur Pendragon, but as few pirates do he knows Arthur Pendragon well enough  _ to _ hate him. He has spent years of his life dodging Arthur’s attempts to capture him, and more than once he’s escaped with barely more than the skin of his teeth. Arthur carries a scar from his left collarbone to his right shoulder where a pirate missed slitting his throat by inches. That scar has Emrys’ name on it.

“You,” is all he says when he lifts the brim of his hat. His eyes are glazed with alcohol but sharp enough to put a tension in Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur takes a step forward and presses his rapier to where his loose tunic has fallen open and exposed his chest. There is a click, and when Arthur looks down he sees a flintlock pistol resting on Emrys’ thigh that points to Arthur’s stomach.

“I haven’t come to quarrel.” Arthur pulls his rapier back in a show of good faith. Emrys, who ran out of good faith many years ago, does not move. “I have a job for you.”

“Would that job be to put my head in a noose and jump at your word?” He asks.

“No, but I wouldn’t mind if you did so anyways.” Emrys leans forward and Arthur takes a step backwards. "I need you to find someone for me." Emrys takes a bottle from the table and tips it back to drink the last swallows of alcohol from within, blue eyes never leaving Arthur's own.

"How incredibly royal of you," he says, "to shun me until you're in want of a favor."

"It isn’t a favor. You’ll be paid.” Arthur takes the purse from his belt and tosses it to Emrys, who makes a show of weighing it in his one hand before he tosses it back.

“That’s not even enough to pay for this conversation, mate.”

“Certainly you don’t think I’m such a fool to pay you entirely in advance.” Emrys shrugs. He kicks the chair across from him.

“Sit.” Arthur looks out at the patrons around him, considers what might be on the surface of that chair, and decides he would rather do anything else.

“I think I’ll stand.”

“Sit,” Emrys repeats, voice lowered, and Arthur narrows his eyes. If only to be diplomatic, as he is prone to be, Arthur sheaths his sword and sits. “Why won’t your daddy do it for you?”

“I beg your pardon?” He asks. Emrys blows out the ember in his pistol and sets it atop the table, now safely disengaged.

“I have no illusions to your father’s power, your highness,” he says, laden with contempt, “and I do not doubt that any man you wish to find he could do so for you. So, why won’t he?” Arthur crosses his arms over his chest.

“My father doesn’t consider this person worth his resources.”

“But he’s worth mine?”

“Yes,” Arthur grinds out, “she is.” Emrys’ eyebrows raise and he gives an open mouthed smile.

“Is this person a lady love by any chance?” He asks, and Arthur glares. Emrys’ grin is snide. “I have to say, I’m surprised.”

“Why?”

“All these years I thought you were a eunuch.” Arthur grits his teeth. Emrys catches the attention of one of the ladies and makes a motion for a drink. She hands a bottle over with a smile. He winks at her as she traces her thumb down his jaw.

“Will you help me or not?” Arthur asks as Emrys uncorks the bottle.

“I’m still deciding. This girl, is she a noble? Or… no, the king would want to save a woman of noble birth.”

“She is a maid in the royal household.”

“Scandalous. And I suppose she has a name.” He tips the bottle back against his lips.

“Guinevere Smith.”

At the sound of her name Emrys stops mid swallow to choke. It isn’t someone he ever thought he would hear of again. He was told she was a nobody. That no one would come looking for her. That her only love was far, far away, and would pay handsomely to be reunited with her once again - and for his discretion.

This is a moment where Emrys blames fate for making his life miserable, in a resentful little part of his mind.

It would upset him greatly if he knew that the person who made his life the most miserable was himself.

“I have no idea who that is,” he lies. “Do you know where she could be off to?”

“Not a clue,” Arthur says, and Emrys takes a deep breath. The relief held within goes unnoticed. “All I know is that she was taken by pirates. As I’m sure you know, they’re a dreadful lot.”

Emrys hums. “So your lady has run off--”

“Been taken.”

“Whatever. You don’t know where she is, or who orchestrated this, only that  _ pirates _ took her. And you want me to ignore a lifetime of animosity between us for a girl I’ve never met and a meager bag of gold. Does that sound right?” Arthur presses his lips together and shrugs.

“Generally.”

“Then I’m gonna have to pass,” he says, and puts a hand to his chest as though it pains him.

“Gwen is an innocent woman. She could be hurt.”

“I hope she is.” It’s a low blow, given that Emrys is well aware of her safety and isn’t remotely concerned for her. Arthur’s nostrils flare and he leans forward. He rests his elbows on his knees rather than touch them anywhere near the table before him.

“I think you’re operating under the assumption you have a choice,” Arthur says, and Emrys draws back. “I said I was going to pay you and I am happy to do so, but I dearly hoped you’d agree to this on your own terms.”

“Are you trying to threaten me?” He asks, outrage written in the crease of his eyebrows and curl of his lips. “Take a look around, my friend. One word from me and  _ everyone _ in this joint takes a piece out of you.”

“That’s fine. I’m sure you’ll remember my murder fondly for the last twelve or so hours you have left to live.” At Emrys’ pause, Arthur continues. “You didn’t really think I’d come here without contingencies, did you? I have documents that outline exactly how the red light district has been aiding and abetting pirates for the past decade. If I don’t get home tonight those documents are to be found by my father." His voice lowers to almost a whisper, dangerous and gravelly. "I will send every single person you know to the gallows.” Emrys scoffs.

“You’re bluffing,” he says.

“Try me,” Arthur answers. Emrys looks between his eyes, searching and coming up empty. He grips the bottle in his hands so tightly his knuckles are white. He bites his lower lip.

“Fine,” he says finally. “Five hundred gold. I expect half my payment in advance. Be at the western docks by seven in the morning and don’t be late, because I will not wait for you. Do we have a deal?” He extends a hand that holds the calluses of hard labor. It is rough and dry when Arthur takes it in his own.

“We have a deal.” He rises to his feet and pushes the chair back under the table. Before he turns to leave, he hesitates. “Emrys?”

Emrys answers with an inquisitive hum.

“Give me my ring back.”

Emrys' smile twitches at his lips, and he flicks the piece of jewelry into the air with his thumb. Arthur catches it and slips it onto his finger with an unsavory look. It is then that he finally exits the tavern.

As he steps back out onto the street, Arthur muses to himself that acquiring blackmail of any kind really would have been clever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact arthur in this was inspired, obv by canon, but also by tristan from neil gaiman's stardust. their attitudes felt very similar to me, with that stubborn naivety and hopeless romanticism. (is there a stardust au anywhere? i feel like there should be.)
> 
> catch me on tumblr [@sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	3. in the dragon's den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur boards Emrys' ship to begin his journey. Emrys scrambles to tie loose ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited and posted all on mobile bc i don't have my computer atm. miserable. we're trying our best here

The King is sated with the knowledge that Arthur is to meet an ambassador and will be away for many weeks on an overseas voyage. He isn’t remotely suspicious of the lie, assured in his hold of power over his son.

Arthur arrives at the docks fifteen minutes before seven with a bag hanging from one shoulder. Dawn has not yet broken - it's late winter and nights are still long. The world is shrouded in blue, like the color of something that has been dyed blue. Perhaps a lovely scarf.

He walks down the docks until he finds Emrys, carrying heavy boxes of supplies along with his crew onto a small ship. It's so small, in fact, it's more like a boat. There is no flag, one mast, one sail, and so little room below-deck that boxes are being stacked onto the top deck.

"I thought it would be bigger," Arthur says as he approaches. Emrys looks over his shoulder and curls his lip. Admittedly, he was rather hoping that their interaction was an intoxicated and vivid nightmare and Arthur wouldn’t actually show. With a nod to his crewmate he lowers the box to the ground. He meets Arthur halfway.

"You have my money?" He asks, and tucks his black hair over his ear. It reveals a long thread of silver that hangs from the lobe and nearly brushes his shoulder.

Arthur takes a box of gold pieces from his bag. Emrys opens the box and parses through a few coins. Satisfied, he lets the lid fall closed and hooks the latch closed. He hands it to a crewmate that towers over them both in height and flashes Arthur a fake smile.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Pendragon. We'll be in touch." He dips in a miniscule bow and makes for the ship. Arthur follows behind him. Emrys stops. Arthur bumps into his back. He turns on his heel to stare him down. "That means piss off."

"I don't think so," Arthur says, his words curling out in a smile. Emrys tilts his head, an argument already forming in his throat like a bad cough. "If I let you leave now, how will I know you won't just take my money and not come back?"

Emrys, who planned on doing just that, takes in a sharp breath of offense. "I would never do something so gutless," he says. Arthur squints and doesn't remotely believe him. A small part of him wonders if he was always like this.

He wasn't. There was a time, when his name was still  _ Merlin _ , that his big heart bled at every offense and he devoted himself to doing anything, for anyone. There was a time when he prided himself in being kind.

But when you're beaten down every time you care, there comes a time where you start saying,  _ hey, what gives? _

And if you have a scrap of self preservation, you start fighting back.

And if you are the type to be bitter and resentful, you may just decide it hurts too much to keep fighting and keep getting beaten down, and it's far easier to not care at all.

It just so happens that Emrys is the type to be bitter and resentful.

The two men stare each other down in heated silence. Their shared stubbornness, added to their mutual dislike, means neither of them are in the mood to back down. 

Then Emrys, who unlike Arthur is working on a time crunch and cannot spend the day glaring into someone else's eyes, clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and steps to the side. He gestures to the ship with a sigh.

"Thank you," Arthur says as he steps past. He's momentarily worried about a stab in the back, but pushes the thought away.

"Don't thank me again, it makes my skin crawl," Emrys says as he follows. He momentarily considers a stab in the back, but pushes the thought away.

Arthur helps the crew load the boat, though only because boxes kept being placed in his hands. Arthur is not inactive by any means, and prides himself on his athleticism, but it is work he is unused to. The constant lifting of boxes makes his back ache and rips at the skin of his palms. By the time mid morning rolls around and they are ready to leave the docks Arthur is fatigued and sweating. Everyone else looks to be the same, even Emrys, who dries sweat from his brow with the collar of his shirt and orders their departure with a wave of his hand that equals in energy to a flag on a windless afternoon.

The sails are hoisted and the boat takes off from the port, but the size of their vessel and the weight of their supplies make for slow travel. Arthur agonizes over their speed. It stings that someone who evaded him at every turn and escaped him by inches for years is in ownership of such abysmal transportation.

Days later, though really it hasn't yet been an hour, the dock is out of sight and a dark shape grows on the horizon. The closer they become, the more features become visible.

It's a ship, a  _ real _ ship, with three masts and two lower decks and a long body for swift travel. It's painted in a beautiful dark stain, the accents blue and gold. The figurehead at the hull is a dragon with its neck extended and its teeth bared in a roar. The ship is anchored in place, unmoving, and its flag is lowered.

"You'll catch flies," Emrys says to him quietly, a gleeful twinkle in his eyes. Arthur thinks him a right bastard.

When they're close enough to smell the tobacco off the ship from their position downwind, Emrys raises his fingers to his lips and lets out an ear splitting whistle. A moment passes before a whistle comes back. The jolly roger starts to rise until it blows at full mast, black and displaying a bright red bird with its wings extended and a white sword in its talons.

"What kind of bird is that?" Arthur asks. He poorly conceals his wonder.

"It doesn't matter," Emrys answers. Anyone who knew Balinor, Emrys' father if you recall, would recognize it as the same flag he used to fly under. They would know it was a merlin.

Sometimes, there are very little things that show how very in the dark someone is.

Their boat comes to a stop on the starboard side. Arthur has to crane his neck to even see the rail of the main deck. The exhaustion of another several hours of even harder work preemptively weighs on him until a hatch on the side of the ship opens where the lower deck would be. A plank is shoved out and the crew take it in hand to secure it to the boat.

A bird flies out of the hatch. It has a sharp, hooked beak and big yellow eyes. Its body is a muted grey and its tail feathers are a striking red. It lands on Emrys' shoulder and beats him upside the head with its wings in the process, much to Emrys' complaint. The bird is a despicable parrot named Kilgharrah. He belonged to Balinor up until his death. He hasn't quite gotten used to having Emrys instead. It doesn't help that he likes to mimic Balinor's voice when he gets lonely, and Emrys rather hates him for it.

"Ugh, not you," Kilgharrah says, and side steps on Emrys' shoulder. He spreads his wings when Emrys tries to shoo him away, but stays firmly on his shoulder. "Hungry."

Arthur, who has never seen a bird speak so clearly, leans backward and away like he’s witnessed some form of witchcraft.

"Go ask Gwaine for a peanut."

"I want cherries."

"Cherry season isn't until next month, you dumb bird." Kilgharrah twists his neck and whistles. He yanks on the silver thread hanging from Emrys' ear and makes him yelp. Emrys tilts his head away and shrugs his shoulder violently. Kilgharrah digs his talons in and doesn’t move.

"You're a bastard," Kilgharrah says. He bobs his head. "Bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard." Arthur isn't sure if he should laugh at Emrys' misfortune or laugh at how ridiculous it is to see one of the most fearsome men he knows be harassed by a talking bird.

Emrys grumbles as he begins to unload the boat with Kilgharrah still stuck to his shoulder. He picks up a barrel with Arthur's help and they cross the plank, Emrys walking backward. The wood creaks under their boots. Arthur looks down, a mistake. The dark water below rocks between the two vessels and slaps the sides. It’s not a long way to the surface of the water, but it’s what’s  _ below _ the surface that makes his vision swim. He keeps a white knuckle grip on the barrel as he tries to maintain his balance. 

"Don't fall," Emrys instructs, more concerned about a loss of cargo or, worse, getting dragged down with him, than Arthur’s wellbeing.

"No, I think I'll dive into the ocean and drown," Arthur snaps, and Emrys makes a show of rolling his eyes.

Both crews, those of the boat and those of the ship, help unload the cargo. The work passes in half the time. When they're finished Emrys pays off the crew of the boat with a silver coin each, and reminds them that none of them have ever met. When the boat crew heartily agrees, and Arthur gapes at them, Emrys gives him a wink.

With their work done they move up to the top deck. The ship crew follows. They all keep one eye on Arthur, looking him up and down with disdain or skepticism or both, depending on how much they know about him.

Up on the main deck Emrys jumps onto the portside railing, where Kilgharrah leaves him only to flap his wings overhead and land again. He holds onto a stay with one hand and rests his other on the hilt of his cutlass.

“Before we set sail, men,” he says over the crowd of crewmen, “you’ll notice we’ve picked up an extra passenger.” He doesn’t say  _ again _ , and he passes a short glare at anyone who looks like they’re thinking it. “His name is Arthur, and he’s looking for a Miss Guinevere Smith.” He continues, louder, before a murmur has a chance to break out, “He doesn’t know where she is, or who took her, so we’re gonna help him find her.” He gives his men a blinding smile.

A man steps forward and places his hand on the railing where Emrys stands. He keeps his voice low. 

“Hey, buddy, are you  _ fucking insane _ ?” He asks, his eyes burning.

“Absolutely,” Emrys answers, without looking down. The man, Lancelot, has learned from much trial and error that it's a fool's errand to change Emrys’ mind when he sets his mind to something. It's easier to help him put out a fire than stop him from igniting it. So he sighs and resigns himself to waiting on the flames.

“Okay.” Lancelot shakes his head and leans his hip against the railing. Emrys nudges his arm with the toe of his boot.

“He’s paying us handsomely to find the lass, so I expect  _ everyone _ to be on their best behavior,” he says firmly. “Aye?”

A chorus of  _ aye _ ’s answer him, though a few are said after a moment’s pause, with the strain of hesitation.

One of those hesitant  _ aye _ ’s comes from Elyan Tomson.

Something to know about Elyan Tomson is that he was born Elyan  _ Smith _ , and that up until her kidnapping by his own crew he sent his sister a letter once monthly detailing the life he led as a blacksmith just outside of Camelot. It wasn’t a lie, at least not at first. He  _ was _ a blacksmith, and a damn good one too. In fact, it was through his smithing that he met Emrys and company. He repaired their swords, was overpaid for his discretion, learned to expect unannounced visits at odd times of the day and night. Sometimes on business and sometimes not.

_ Don’t you ever want more? _ They asked him.

And he did.

But he couldn’t endanger his sister by letting her know the truth, and he couldn’t hurt her by cutting off contact. So he changed his name, sent Gwen letters about a life that didn’t exist, and spent his days crossing oceans and singing and learning about cultures he never dreamed of. It was perfect, up until she screamed at him for being a liar until she lost her voice.

He isn’t sure if he can keep up another lie that big, not after seeing what it did to her.

Emrys disbands the gathering with another sharp whistle and jumps from the railing onto the deck. The pirates filter off to their stations, to cook or organize or laze about and drink. Elyan approaches him as the deck clears.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Elyan asks, and Emrys puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Just leave it to me,” Emrys says, “I’ve got a plan.”

In reality it’s more of a vague goal, and Emrys assumes he can wing it until he gets there. The method has never worked before, but despite the overwhelming evidence to suggest otherwise he finds no reason to change his modus operandi. Arthur’s belief that Emrys is astronomically clever is selectively realistic.

Emrys catches eyes with Arthur and jerks his head in the direction of the captain’s cabin. He closes the door behind them. Kilgharrah takes off from his shoulder and sits himself on the back of a chair that's pushed into a queen anne desk. The cabin is a mess of books and clothes and bottles. There’s a bed shoved into one side of the room, and the sheets are rumpled and unmade. Arthur frowns when he steps on a corset.

“I’m not sure it suits you,” he says, and gives the garment a nudge when Emrys glances over.

“First time seeing one in person?" He asks, and Arthur sneers. Emrys clears his desk by throwing everything onto the floor. He opens a map over the surface and keeps it open with several odd trinkets placed on the corners. Among them is an opaque crystal and a vial of blue liquid. “Here,” Emrys says, and taps on the map. “This is where we are, and these are all the islands near us.”

Kilgharrah hops from the back of the chair and onto the desk. He steps to an island and chitters his beak against the illustration. He makes kissy noises. "You're cute, you're cute," he says, and makes more kissy noises. All the blood drains from Emrys' face. He takes Kilgharrah gently in hand and tosses him away. Kilgharrah flaps his wings, lets out a stream of, " _ fuck, fuck, fuck _ ," and lands on the open door of an armoire that's vomiting clothes all over itself. Arthur is too absorbed in the map to notice Emrys’ strife. 

Arthur twists the ring on his index finger with his thumb. There are at least ten islands, big and small, on the map alone. Even if one were to completely ignore the mainland, it’s a dizzying swath of distance to cover.

“Shit,” Arthur breathes. Emrys hums, and leans against the desk in an exaggerated show of nonchalance even as he fidgets with his hand, unable to decide if he wants to rest it on his hip or his pistol or just hide his hand in his pocket. “Well… we have to start somewhere,” he says. He looks over the islands and chooses the one Kilgharrah fawned over. “How about this one?”

“No,” Emrys says, far too quickly, and he cringes inward as Arthur quirks an eyebrow at him. He clears his throat and waves his hand. “That island is barren. Not even rum runners touch it. I doubt your lady friend is there.” Arthur deflates by a fraction and stares hard at the map until his eyes lose focus and he’s staring at fuzzy blots and squiggles of ink. “It’ll be easier for us to be methodical about things. We’ll hit this island first,” he says, and points to the island closest to the mainland, “and then this one,” he points to an island a little farther away, “and so on and so on.” He draws a line with his finger that touches each of the islands.

“She might not be anywhere on this map,” Arthur laments. Emrys glances at the island Arthur first pointed to and a corner of his mouth pulls into a grimace.

“It’s not too late to give up and leave me alone," he says, a light tone to his voice. Arthur imagines Guinevere locked away somewhere in a dungeon and his eyes harden.

“No. We’re going to find her.”

“If you say so.”

Miles away, Morgana sneaks from the arms of her lover to wake her with a breakfast of fruits and pastries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you're wondering, kilgharrah is an african grey parrot. they're arguably the smartest parrots alive and they're also hilarious. do yourself a favor and look up some videos of african greys
> 
> catch me on tumblr [@sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	4. the trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emrys treads on thin ice. Arthur makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next 3 chapters are all interconnected and are all in the course of a day. so that's fun.

Markets are incredibly busy places, especially near the port. Crowds shuffle along shoulder to shoulder in the wide streets. Some break off and pause at carts to waste vendor's time with their haggling and window shopping. A vendor of only twenty years with eyes about as lively as dry tree bark watches two of these time wasters as they pick over wares. 

One of them, a blond with uptight posture and a refusal to touch anything that looks too dusty, converses to the vendor of the cart just before her own. He raises his hand to the height of his shoulder and says something about curls or girls or whirls, the vendor is not a lip reader, as he runs his hand through his own hair. 

The other, a frowning brunette that looks about as if he's waiting for someone to jump out from the crowd and run him through and is trying to be ready to defend himself when it inevitably occurs, skims his hands over everything on display. He'll pick up a heavy item, a pot or vase or iron pan, weigh it in his hand, cast a hateful eye to the blond, and then set it back down. 

She has no way of knowing that he's musing to himself how much weight an item would need to knock the blond clean unconscious.

The blond smiles, hesitates into shaking the vendor's hand, and the pair travel to her cart. It does not escape her notice that as they depart, the brunette admires the bits of jewelry on the cart, and not everything his hand passes over still remains when they've left.

"Hello," the blond says, "my name is Arthur."

What she wants to say is,  _ hello arthur. would you like to buy something, or just disinterest me in conversation? _

What she does say is, "Hello, Arthur. How can I help you?"

That is the wrong question.

"I'm looking for a girl," he says.

"You've come to the wrong cart, I'm afraid."

The brunette snorts and touches his knuckles to his lips. He mouths  _ what? _ when Arthur glares at him.

"I'm not looking to buy-- have you  _ seen _ a girl?"

"Quite a few."

"Let me start again."

"Okay."

"Have you seen a girl, about this height," he raises his hand to his shoulder, and, ah, "curly brown hair, just over her shoulders. Most beautiful eyes you've ever seen, you know, like brandy in a sunbeam. She's got dark skin and freckles. Answers to Gwen. Or Guinevere."

She purses her lips together like she's slurping an invisible string of spaghetti. She's careful to keep her eyes on the brunette's hands as she leans back and thinks, with much difficulty, of all the people she's met in the past weeks.

And she does remember a woman with bright brown eyes and a smile that could put the sun to shame, who exuberantly introduced herself as Guinevere, who hung on the arm of her lover as they perused. She'd bought a necklace, a simple braided gold chain with a gold and emerald serpent clasp. The vendor hadn’t asked, but Guinevere explained that it was to replace one she lost. She'd pulled her hair up off her neck as her lover clasped the necklace for her, fingers tracing the skin above her collar a moment too long.

_ have we met? _ she'd asked Guinevere's lover, because she could have sworn she'd seen her in a shop or across the street or even in a procession. The woman gave her a cold eye and set a gold coin on the table.

_ never before, and not today either _ .

The vendor, now, looks at these two men who have given nothing in return for her attention, and shrugs as she crosses her arms.

"Not quite, sir," she says. The man looks down, his eyebrows furrowed together and his eyes sad, and gives her a smile.

"Bad luck. Thank you anyway." He reaches his hand out to shake. The tight line of his mouth thanks her when she refuses to take it.

She keeps her eyes glued to the brunette so he knows better than to take anything. He twists a silver chain he nicked from the cart before around his fingers and whistles his imaginary innocence.

"No one here has seen her. I'm afraid this may be a bust." Arthur scuffs his boot against the dusty cobblestones. Emrys runs his fingers over his stolen braided chain and sticks it in his coat pocket.

"You'll not get anywhere with that attitude. Why don't you keep on looking? I'll pop back to the ship, we'll have a hot meal ready when you're back." He clasps Arthur's shoulder and gives him a winning smile. He has no intention of sticking around if he has so much as a minute free from Arthur - who has foreseen this by miles and refuses to go anywhere off the ship without Emrys by his side. It's a rather miserable arrangement for both of them.

"I agree with one of those statements," Arthur says, "I'm about starved." Emrys raises a skeptical brow. He's right to think that Arthur doesn't know the meaning of the word  _ starved _ . He's barely familiar with the tightness in his belly of  _ slightly hungry _ . This is, of course, what starved means to him.

"There's plenty of vendors to choose from."

Arthur curls his lip as he looks at the carts of food. Pies are served, mostly, meats and cheeses and fruits served in folded over pockets of pastry. Arthur has eaten plenty of pies in his life, but the state of the vendors' dirty fingers makes his stomach churn. 

Life outside of the Pendragon castle is looking to be much dirtier than he ever expected. More than ever he wishes to be back home, sitting in an open windowsill in the kitchens to feel the cool ocean air on his back, talking at length with Guinevere about palace gossip. She always let him vulture the collapsed cakes and the cut off edges of tarts when no one was looking.

From an outside perspective it would appear no more than friendly, and that is the correct assumption. However, our Arthur Pendragon never quite had a friend like Guinevere before, true and so dismissive of his status, and had no way of knowing that kindness and company from someone so beautiful was not necessarily a flirtation.

Arthur jumps when Emrys is jostled into his side. Someone yelps and he turns his head, hand already on his rapier. Emrys is holding a young man, no older than sixteen, by the wrist in a vice grip. The boy has a silver chain in his clenched fist. He digs his heels into the ground and pulls away in vain.

"Let me go!" He cries, but the crowd takes one look at the boy's dirty face and the grime under his nails and pays him no mind. He's nothing but a pickpocket, and a bad one at that.

"You think you can steal from me, you little shit?" Emrys asks from between his teeth, his eyes hard set. The boy yanks his arm again to no avail as he glares.

"You can't claim what you've stolen yourself," the boy spits. Arthur, who hadn't been paying enough attention to see Emrys nick anything, watches with a dropped jaw. He idly pats his own pockets. Nothing is missing. Yet.

"Stolen well enough not to get caught," Emrys says, his eyebrows raised, and squeezes the boy's wrist until he drops the chain. Emrys catches it when it falls and slips it back into his pocket. He shoves the boy back as he lets him go. The boy holds his wrist to his chest and tightens his shoulders. He casts his eyes downward in a show of grief.

"I only wanted it to sell," he says gently. "I have no money, and I have a sister to support." Emrys scoffs.

"And she's sick as well, yeah?" The corner of his mouth ticks upward when the boy flushes in embarrassment.

"Nearly dying," he insists. Emrys rolls his eyes and mutters,  _ sure _ . He takes his coin purse from his pocket and takes out two gold pieces and three silver before he cinches the bag closed with a few sharp pulls.

"What's your name?" He asks. "Or should I just call you Thief?" The boy watches the coins with the intensity of a stray dog at a butcher's back door.

"Daegal," he says. Emrys clicks his tongue.

"Well, Daegal," he says, and holds out the coins for him to take, "I'm sure it will be easier to buy 'medicine' with real money." Daegal eyes his hand suspiciously, but Emrys nods and moves his hand in a little wiggle to encourage him.

"I don't understand," Daegal says, but snatches the money away before Emrys can change his mind.

"No one deserves to go hungry," he says. "Spend it wisely. Don't be an idiot." Daegal stands there, wide eyed and confused, before Emrys hurries him away with a wave of his hand and a condescendingly mouthed  _ shoo _ .

"Thank you," he says, doubt still written over his face as he turns and disappears into the river of moving bodies. Emrys straightens his coat by snapping his lapels forward.

"Has his majesty decided on his meal?" He asks, a complete dismissal of the interaction that has passed.

A wrinkle forms between Arthur's eyebrows. It isn't the action itself that worries him. He's done the same, given what he can spare to beggars and the occasional young thief. But charity is the last thing he ever expected from a pirate. From his father's teachings they were greedy and cruel, and from his own experiences they were crafty and traitorous. Mercy, sympathy, kindness even, were not the traits of a pirate.

And yet.

"It's all equally disgusting to me," he says, his tone dull and absent.

"Fair enough," Emrys answers, and chooses for him. They pay very little money for pies that are so incredibly spiced that Arthur has to assume it is to hide the low quality of meat inside.

Every vendor they pass gives him a similar answer. Most say no, some say  _ even if i did, why would i tell you, creep?  _ and Arthur can't argue with that.

Emrys isn’t entirely committed to the search, and he isn’t afraid to make it known. He tries to give Arthur the slip more than once, flirts with vendors and passersby to derail Arthur's questions, and, now that Arthur keeps one eye on him to ensure there is no more thievery, he's handsy with valuables on the carts to annoy him.

Emrys has only been paid half of what Arthur plans to give when they find Guinevere, he should  _ want _ to find her to get the rest of his money and Arthur out of his hair. A creeping suspicion settles in him, a theory confirmed by the treatment of Daegal, and the ugly head of resentment starts to fester where there was once only irritation.

Arthur places himself in between Emrys and a beautiful woman with a dress too thick for the high temperatures and a corset that threatens to initiate a game of pop-goes-the-weasel with her breasts. Emrys glares as he withdraws his hands. One admired her blue sapphire earrings, the other wandered its way to her pocket to find something interesting and valuable while she was distracted. Both are now raised in surrender.

“Nice try, but that isn’t Guinevere,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. Emrys rolls his eyes at his scolding posture.

“I’m just having a bit of fun.”

“Excuse me--” the woman starts.

“You’re still here?” Arthur asks, barely turning his head. The woman scoffs. She casts a look to Emrys, who shrugs helplessly, before she grits her teeth and stomps away, frustrated at Arthur for interrupting and at Emrys for not putting up a fight for her. It’s for the best, anyway. If Emrys kept her a moment later, she never would have met the coachwoman she would, long after this story has ended, run away to live the rest of her days beside and later be described as quite good friends with.

“That was rude.”

“Why don’t you want me to find Guinevere?” Arthur asks over him. Emrys leans microscopically away, arguably even sinks into himself.

“I don't know what you're talking about," he says about as convincingly as any terrible liar can be. Arthur has his moments, but he isn't an idiot. At least not completely. His anger flares in him.

"Yes you do! What's your problem?"

"Maybe I'm not keen on helping someone who's tried to  _ kill _ me!"

"You've tried to kill me--"

"In self defense--"

"And I'm  _ paying _ you!"

"Congratulations on threatening me into taking on your terms, it's not like I had a choice!"

"So you sabotage me? When you  _ know _ the danger Gwen could be in!" Emrys bites his tongue until he tastes iron. If he told the truth now, it would only start a fight, and one he was certain to lose. Emrys can't best Arthur with a sword when Arthur isn't motivated to take his life. To admit his role in Guinevere's disappearance now would be like putting his own head into a guillotine.

"I don't care! I never wanted to be involved in the first place!" Which is true, partially. He knew it was a bad idea to orchestrate Gwen's pilgrimage even as he took on the task. The amount of money offered changed his mind.

"I never should have told you she was taken by pirates! There's honor among thieves, isn't there? You protect your own!" At the word  _ pirate _ Emrys' demeanor changes. He looks over his shoulder in case someone heard. 

"Lower your voice!" Emrys hisses. Arthur straightens his back. He crowds Emrys' space, not stopping until Emrys stops him with a hand on his sternum. Emrys' heart thuds in his ears as Arthur glares at him, eyes ignited in a blue fire, close enough to count his eyelashes.

"Oh, I'm sorry, with your behavior I assumed you had  _ pride _ . I assumed, from how you are so content to act like a  _ pirate _ ," he raises his voice on the word, "you wouldn't be afraid for everyone to know that  _ you're a pirate! _ "

At this point is when Emrys begins to look at him like Arthur has his back pressed against a railing with nothing but empty ocean behind and a knife to his throat in front - which is to say like a cornered wild animal. His eyes are wide and terrified when they scan over the crowd. Some of them regard him with distaste and carry onward. Some of the older fellows spare no more than a sympathetic glance. The majority, however, stop in their tracks and start to group around them.

_ did he say pirate? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh !
> 
> catch me on tumblr [@sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	5. the slip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chases, injury, stress so intense that dams of emotion break down and spill out everywhere! This is why people don't go on adventures.

_ should we notify someone? _

_ i didn't think i'd ever see one! _

_ a pirate! is he going to hurt us? _

"Now look at what you've done!" Emrys says. He pulls his gun and points it into the crowd. "Let me through." No one moves. Everyone is overcome with the distinct, herd-like notion that since everyone else is cornering the two men, so should they, and they believe themselves righteous and dutiful citizens for doing so. Emrys raises his gun to the sky and fires. "I said  _ move! _ "

It's a much less divine parting of the red sea. They scream and scramble over each other, the herd erased into a panicking crowd trying to save themselves. Emrys, an absurdly less divine Moses, takes off into the split. Arthur is almost willing to let him go, too. What he's given to Emrys is in no way a sizable chunk of his wealth. It will hardly be missed. He can try again with someone else,  _ anyone _ else.

However, the crowd has gotten it into their heads that he and Emrys are two halves of a pair. Arthur looks down his nose at them all - surely anyone with sense could tell he’s a Pendragon, their prince no less.

Either the crowd is lacking in sense or his self importance doesn’t quite reflect reality, because they turn on him with a rage in their eyes that can only come as an aftertaste of fear. They take a step toward him and the circle around him tightens. Someone grabs his arm and he has to wrench himself free. It does not occur to him that a man companioned by a pirate may very well be mistaken as one.

With a swear, Arthur pulls his sword and shoves through the crowd before it chokes him.

The crowd behind breaks out in cries of anger. Their ruckus alerts constables, and the constables rouse the king’s guard, and upon seeing the Pendragon crest on the men chasing behind him Arthur ducks his head and runs as fast as he possibly can. If his father discovers he’s been lied to - especially on behalf of a servant - Arthur will be locked within the castle walls for the rest of his life. In his mind he sees Guinevere waiting in chains for a rescue that will never come, not without Arthur. Unbeknownst to him, at this exact moment in time Guinevere is having a picnic on the beach that's soon to evolve into very sandy oral sex.

Emrys is ahead, but his height keeps him in eyesight. Arthur watches his shaggy hair bob and weave between the other heads in the crowd and follows. If there’s any authority on quick getaways, it’s Emrys.

Emrys looks over his shoulder and the crowd. His eyes pass right over Arthur. He’s more concerned about the king’s guard, who are hot on Arthur’s heels but far enough from Emrys for him to cut across the street and into an alleyway. Arthur damns them both by following.

“You!” The constable says, his fingers like overfilled sausages when he holds his very important hat that contains all of his authority tight to his head. Authority is incredibly important to him. Without laws the world falls into chaos. His hat, with its pretty silver thread trim, makes him the last barrier between civilized society and the pits of tartarus. You don’t have to be a prince to be a self important knob. “Quit mucking about and surrender peacefully!” He breathes hard through his pig nose. The king's guards are shouting from behind like hunting dogs with the scent of a boar.

Emrys looks over his shoulder, eyes alight with confusion and rage when he finds two of his least favorite men breathing down his neck. Of course, Emrys doesn’t know the constable personally. But what’s the real difference between one and the other? Surely not the size of their egos. It’s easier to treat them as one faceless man than a legion of imbeciles.

"What if I don't?" Emrys calls over his shoulder. The constable wheezes what may have been an indignant squawk if he weren't so out of breath.

"Well, then-- then-- I'll be cross!"

"Oh, in that case," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, and puts on an extra burst of energy.

The small alleyway takes a sharp and downhill right turn. Emrys slips on a grimy cobblestone and slams into the side of a building. His elbow goes through a window. Arthur cleverly holds his hands out to brace himself from the same fate but shreds his palm on the glass instead. It’s so fast and clean and his adrenaline is so high he doesn’t realize it’s happened until his hand is, upon a glancing inspection, literally dripping blood. He clenches his fist and holds it to his chest.

Arthur is right at Emrys’ left, now. Emrys catches him from the corner of his eye and scowls.

“You can’t scurry off to your mates, then?” Emrys snaps.

“They think I’m with  _ you! _ ” Arthur answers. The pain still hasn’t set into his hand yet. He’s pouring all his focus into the uneven road ahead in the hopes he can avoid it as long as possible.

“Deplorable," Emrys says. He pats his pockets and swears when he finds his bag of musketballs missing. He left it on the ship. He always forgets to bring it with him. He turns on his heel and kicks a stack of empty rum barrels. They tip over and tumble and block the path. Emrys stumbles as his momentum threatens to twist his ankle.

"At least we agree on something," Arthur says under his breath. 

They skid into a backstreet. A young woman sprays them with dirt when they pass under a window where she’s shaking out a rug. The constable has slowed behind them, red faced and heaving, but the king's guards are happy to keep up the chase. If Arthur weren’t the one being hunted down like a deer with an arrow in its flank, he’d be proud of their dedication.

Alas.

Arthur looks over his shoulder. One of the men is taking aim with a rifle. On instinct, Arthur takes a handful of Emrys’ coat and yanks him to the side. Emrys stumbles into Arthur with a grunt of protest. The rifle fires.

Here’s the thing about fate.

Human beings are built to recognize patterns. For all intents and purposes, this is a good thing. Languages are patterns, facial features are patterns, patterns are what tells a person the difference between a clucking chicken and a venomous snake.

So good are people at seeing patterns that they see patterns where there are none. They see faces in the speckling of sediment inside stone. They see frolicking animals inside clouds. And they see predestined fate where there are only consequences and coincidences. Mediums with a shred of accuracy are merely better at recognizing the paper trail of cause and effect than their peers.

Before the guard fired, Daegal, with a meat pie in one hand, stuck his foot out and tripped him. The guard fell and fired directly into the ground. A handful of guards, unprepared for the sudden stop, tripped over the first.

Arthur and Emrys, after this, will see fate. They also think themselves terribly clever and personable. Understand that if that were true, and their point of view could be wholesomely trusted, this story would be told from their perspectives.

Daegal’s home is an alleyway off the backstreet they ran through. When Emrys gave him money to feed himself, he chose to give up his pickpocketing for the day and return. He’d gone unnoticed by Emrys and Arthur, too wrapped up in their escape, but they were not unnoticed by Daegal. Out of curiosity, Daegal looked from his hidden corner of the world to see what chased them. Out of gratitude, he stepped in to defend them.

Had Emrys not shown him kindness he never would have been in the position to give them aid, and he never would have helped them if he had. 

“Daegal!” Emrys exclaims, grabbing Arthur’s arm to balance himself. Daegal waves. Arthur pulls Emrys forward before the king’s guards can recover.

“Thanks, kid!” Arthur shouts as he runs, Emrys in tow. 

They stumble out into the main street. They check behind them for guards, lower their heads, and let themselves be carried by the flow of people to safety.

The river of bodies spits them out a bothersome distance from the ship. The pain in Arthur’s hand has finally started to settle. His skin is tight and burning hot and sticky. The tips of his fingers have half formed, dark red drips where his blood coagulated and solidified before it could fall.

He doesn't have a moment to catch his breath before Emrys is on him, so enraged he's gone a tad deaf. His eyes are wide and his vision swims with every forceful beat of his heart.

"Are you completely," a shove, " _ utterly _ ," a punch stopped by Arthur grabbing his wrist, "despicably  _ insane!? _ " Arthur shoves him back, and Emrys stands paces away, fists clenched, chest heaving, flushed down to his neck with anger. "What the hell were you thinking!?"

"This isn't my fault! They were-- they were  _ rabid! _ " Arthur gestures a wide arc to the general direction of the market. Emrys jabs his hand in the same direction with so much vigor he ends up standing on his toes for a moment.

"That's how they  _ always _ act!"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Arthur scoffs.

"You haven't seen dramatic!" Emrys shouts. "Do you have any idea how many times I've almost been killed? I've lost count! I've lost count of how many times  _ you've _ tried to kill me!"

"Like you don't deserve it," Arthur says. His hand is throbbing, a pain so heavy it numbs everything else. Emrys breathes hard, forcing himself to calm before he becomes truly hysterical.

"What about everyone who didn't?" Emrys grits out, eyes hard.

"You mean the  _ good _ ones?" Arthur asks, a snide lilt to his tone. Emrys' lip curls for a moment and he licks his teeth.

"Yeah," he says, then tilts his head and adds, "but I also meant the ones who weren't pirates at all."

That sinks in Arthur's chest like a rock.

"No one was ever killed that wasn't a pirate. You're making that up," he says. "That's sick."

"Are you sure? Do you want me to start listing names? Just off the top of my head."

"We only ever hung pirates," Arthur insists.

"Freya," Emrys starts, raising a finger, "was hung when she was found on board a pirate ship. She was immigrating from her village to Camelot. No one listened when she said she didn’t even know she was on a pirate ship. She was hung with the rest of the crew. She wasn't even twenty." He raises another finger. "William was suspected of knowing a pirate's location. He was hung for refusing to disclose it. No trial, of course. He was seventeen at the time - hadn't even moved from his parent's home."

"Stop it--"

"Mordred was a nine year old  _ child _ \--"

"I said that's  _ enough! _ "

"Innocent people don't stop dying just because you're sick of hearing about it!" Emrys shouts over him. "People will kill a  _ child _ because just the accusation of piracy makes them scared of him! These were my friends, my family, and they were murdered for no reason! And it's your fault!"

"I didn't do this!"

"Your father did! And you helped him plenty!"

"My father--" Arthur swallows. "He did not create this  _ madness _ . He would never let someone be murdered on hearsay." He looks at Emrys imploringly, trying to convince himself more than anyone else as he emphasizes, "He  _ wouldn't _ ."

"He did. He  _ is _ ."

They stand in weighted silence. Arthur leans against the building as his thoughts start to fill up his skull so terribly they begin to trickle out of his ears. He bites his tongue. He doesn't believe Emrys. Or, that's what he's telling himself. If Emrys is a liar (and he usually is, but not in this moment) he's doing a terribly good job of looking convincing, with his eyebrows worried together and his shoulders a tense line. And if he's telling the  _ truth _ …

Arthur doesn't want to think about that.

Because there are two options. His father let those people be sentenced to death without the proper treatment of the law, or he looked the other way as they were lynched. Arthur knows his father is a hard man, but he isn't ready to accept that he could be that cruel.

"Find someone else to look for Guinevere. You can do whatever you want as recompense, I don't care. I've had about all I can stand." Emrys pushes his hair out of his eyes and drags his hand down his face. He's worried, in the back of his mind, that Arthur will enact his vengeance on the innocent people of Camelot as he first promised. But the more self involved part of him that's festered and grown over his kindness like a mold reassures him that his own life is priority one.

"Wait." Emrys pauses. Raises his hands and lets them drop back to his sides. Arthur rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. "You…" He looks away. Rubs his hand over his knee. Looks back again. "I want you to swear to me you're telling the truth."

"What reason do I have to lie? It's not like you believe my word." That was a good point, unfortunately, and not one in the King's favor. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. He fears he's going to be sick.

"Then I'm sorry I put you in danger, and I hope you'll forgive me."

It takes a moment for Emrys' mind to catch up with his ears.

"What?"

"I said I'm--"

"I heard you," Emrys interrupts, and gets a glare in response. He doesn't speak for a moment. He doesn't know what  _ to _ say. He never thought he'd be in the position to offer Arthur forgiveness. A part of him wants to reject him out of spite.

Yet, Emrys also knows through experience that it’s hard to look so shaken unless you truly feel it. And Arthur certainly looks the part, with his ashen face and shaking, bloodied hand and distant eyes. The sincerity of the moment makes his stomach curdle. He hates Arthur, he knows he does. But somewhere in the back of his mind is an uncertainty, a question if it was their choice and not simply a set up by their circumstances. For all the time he's pummeled his own heart into the dirt to make it quiet, the damn thing still beats. And it fools him into having hope.

"Don't do it again," he says sternly, and Arthur nods. He takes a breath and looks to the entrance of the alleyway before he looks back to Arthur. "Are you hurt?" He asks, and gestures to Arthur's hand. Arthur clenches his fist. A deep ache in his palm throbs.

"I've seen worse," he says. Emrys rolls his eyes.

"I didn't ask for your life story, I asked if you were hurt."

"It's certainly not pleasant," he answers. Emrys dusts off his coat and clears his throat.

"Okay. Well." He scratches the back of his head. "I can mend you back at the ship." He pokes his cheek with his tongue as Arthur looks at him with his eyebrow quirked. A smile barely brightens his eyes as what Emrys is offering settles in him.

"You'll mend me? You?"

"I’m happy to let you bleed out if that’s what you’d prefer.” Arthur’s mind is filled with notions of poisoned needles and leeches, but he doesn’t want to risk this moment of allyship by declining.

"Fine. But no funny business."

"Oh. Nevermind, then," he says. Arthur snorts, and Emrys flashes a fleeting, toothy grin. "Come on." He holds out his hand, and Arthur takes it as he rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little bit of healing is finally going on... next chapter is gonna be a little softer. it's mostly dialogue.
> 
> important note that arthur and merlin are good people but both of them are guilty of wrong doing that isn't always forgivable. they're victims of their circumstances and their perception of the world they live in, but they're still responsible for the bad they've done and confronting it is necessary to move forward. this is about two people who become better when they learn better, not two people who live happily ever after bc they've secretly been wonderful people the whole time. just so we're clear.
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com)


	6. the fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The incremental burying of the hatchet begins. Emrys takes it upon himself to be Arthur's surgeon, as you do for people you dislike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellmo.png time for HURT/COMFORT
> 
> warning for a pretty graphic medical procedure and the, y'know, lack of first aid hygiene common in the 1700s

So Arthur sits on the edge of the desk in Emrys' cabin. He wipes blood from his mother’s ring with a damp rag Emrys gave him. It's gone orange and deep red from his skin. The wound is deeper than he previously believed. His skin is flayed from the knuckle of his index to the heel of his palm. He's lucky he can move his hand at all, though he doesn't know it. 

Emrys returns with a rolled up sheet of leather in one hand and a clear bottle in the other. His hair is tied back out of his eyes with a strip of cloth. He sets down the roll of leather and bottle on either side of Arthur so he can roll up his sleeves, and takes a seat on the desk chair between Arthur's legs. 

“What on Earth is this?” Arthur asks, and picks up the bottle.

“It’s gin,” he answers simply.

“You'll not use it on me, I hope," he says, disgust and concern lining his tone. Emrys barks a humorless, pointed laugh.

"No," he says, and reaches over his leg to unroll the leather sheet, showing a line of metal tools - among them a pair of needle nose pliers, an intimidatingly large clamp, a knife with a serrated edge, a curved needle, and a long hook. Emrys takes up the curved needle and a spool of silk thread from a desk drawer. Inside said desk drawer is also a letter that says  _ to whom it may concern _ in curling cursive and carries a broken wax seal that depicts an  _ M _ encircled with a snake. Emrys shuts the drawer too fast for Arthur to see. "It's to drink."

"Noted," Arthur says, already uncorking the bottle at the stomach turning sight of the tools. He takes an overzealous swallow and almost coughs it back up at the horrendous, dry burn that meets his tongue and throat. It’s not exactly high quality. Emrys' lips twitch in a smile as he threads his needle.

"Give me your hand." He gladly takes Arthur’s hand by the wrist and touches the edge of the wound with his thumb. The skin is swollen and red. Emrys clicks his tongue. “Why don’t you tell me about Guinevere?”

“What?”

“Guinevere. Tell me about her.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked nicely.” He says with an innocent smile, looking up at Arthur through his eyelashes. Sitting between Arthur’s legs, the back of his hand warm above Arthur’s knee, his grip on Arthur's wrist firm, the gesture strikes Arthur with the realization that Emrys is, by all accounts, an attractive man, with high cheekbones and full lips and impish blue eyes. That this attractive man is incredibly close, and he doesn't mind as much as he should. It’s confusing in the way that a metal rod square in the brain is confusing: slightly violent, disconcerting, and unwelcome.

“Well,” Arthur says, thinking of every aspect of Gwen he can imagine in an attempt to push past the feeling, “she’s… she’s kind.” Emrys looks at him unimpressively. 

“Is that it?”

“No that’s not it,” Arthur snaps. “She has this way about her, you know. She's smart. She doesn't flaunt it, but it's obvious that she's far above everyone else. She has this…" He gesticulates with his free hand, at a loss for the right words.

"Grace," Emrys supplies without thinking, drawing from his own experience with her. He catches his mistake in an instant and shifts in his seat. "That's what I think you're thinking of, I mean, based on what you've said so far. I wouldn't know."

"Right," Arthur says, and after a pause he continues. "She won't stop beating me at chess- _ss-ss-ss--_ _fucker!_ "

"Don't be a baby," Emrys says, holding his hand tight so he can't pull free. The needle is pushed through one flap of skin, though it still has to pass through the other to close the wound. Arthur takes another mouthful, never minding the burn. "Keep talking. It takes the mind off." He jabs the needle through a second time and Arthur's leg kicks the chair of its own accord.

"I guess-- she's-- she's funny," he says, gritting his teeth as Emrys tugs the thread through the perforations in his skin. Emrys snips the thread and sticks the needle into the inner hem of Arthur's trousers to keep from losing it. "She says the oddest things, sometimes. It's rather endearing." Emrys ties the thread with nimble fingers, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his lips with concentration.

"Like what?  _ Yes, I will court you _ ?"

"Hilarious," Arthur deadpans. "We actually… aren't courting." Emrys sticks Arthur a little rougher than necessary in his surprise. " _ Ow-- _ !"

"You're doing all this for a woman you're not even courting?"

"It's not like I-- we--" He bobs his head and presses his lips together, "I'm a prince, and she's only a maid. Courting isn't exactly puh- _ hos _ sible."

"Hm." Emrys snips the thread again and ties it. Arthur takes another sip. "Would she say yes if you asked, do you think?" Arthur rubs his thigh. His head is starting to fizz just under his skin. Not quite enough to numb the pain, but enough to distract him from it. He hums, delighting in the vibration of his throat.

"I would hope so," he says.

"What if she--" he swallows, "completely hypothetically, if-- maybe if she were in love with someone else, how would you take it?"

"Why would you ask me that?" Arthur asks, voice hard and scolding. "I don't want to think about that. It's not possible, anyways. She doesn't have anyone. And-- jesus-- if she does, they aren't looking for her like I am, so it's obvious who cares more."

"I'm just making conversation," Emrys says quietly.

"Well, you're shit at it," Arthur answers hotly.

"Don't speak to me that way," Emrys says, completely calm and unoffended, not even pausing his stitchwork. "I'm helping you. Have some goddamn respect." Arthur presses his lips together in a frown. He’s half tempted to pull his hand away and reject his help just so he can yell at him some more.

"I wouldn't have said it if you weren't being rude in the first place," Arthur says. Emrys stops, the needle still halfway through Arthur's skin, and rubs his eye with the back of his wrist as he recognizes he isn't going to get through this sober. He takes up the bottle of gin and drinks it with a fervor that can only be described as medicinal.

"I didn't mean to be hurtful," he says finally, rasping from the alcohol in his throat and the pride he swallowed with it. "I was just asking if it'd, y'know, be the end of the world for you, or whatever."

"It would be like losing the sun," he says, rather Shakespearean in his delivery. Emrys rolls his eyes. As he pushes the needle the rest of the way through, he wonders why Gwen didn't jump off a dock and  _ swim _ to get away from this dolt.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're extremely annoying?" He asks.

"No one that survived," Arthur jokes, and Emrys scrunches his nose in distaste.

"Killing everyone who disagrees with you, you're on your way to being a proper king already," he shoots back, eyes intent on his work.

"I'll not be that kind of king," Arthur says. He means it to be a reprimand, but it comes out gentler than he intends. "I'll be a good king. One my people trust." Emrys runs his thumb over the thread holding Arthur's skin closed. The gentle touch makes Arthur shiver.

"I don't think a king like that exists," he says.

"Maybe not yet," he answers with a smile. Emrys lets out a little huff that may have been a laugh.

"For everyone's sake, I hope you're right." He pierces Arthur's skin one final time, ties a knot, and sets his tools to the side. He turns Arthur’s hand this way and that to look for weak points in his stitching, and is satisfied when he finds none. He leans back in his chair as Arthur inspects his handiwork.

"This is quite good."

"I know, it's almost like I know what I'm doing," Emrys says and rests his head on his fist. Arthur scrapes his thumbnail over the sutures.

“How did you learn to do this?” He asks.

“I was taught as a child,” he says vaguely. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise, Arthur. Who do you think has been mending my wounds all this time?”

They both tense, the hard bought almost-friendly air between them straining. Emrys looks off at Kilgharrah, hanging upside down from a rafter, and tries not to remember the worst things Arthur is responsible for on his body alone. Tries not to remember the frustrating trembling in his hands as he attempted to manage the shock of his injuries and work up the courage to pierce his own skin over and over, all at the same time.

Arthur, imaginative and guilty, sees Emrys alone, biting down on a strip of leather to manage the pain, bleeding enough for his hands to slip over his skin, crying out every time the needle went in. It’s all very dramatic and gut wrenching, though as it often is the reality was much more tame. Lancelot would be at his side, armed with a bloody rag and copious amounts of alcohol, trying to remain calm and unable to give him aid by Emrys’ own stubborn refusal to accept help from anyone. Emrys would curse the Pendragon bloodline with every puncture. He would promise, with every curse, he would kill Arthur for certain the next time he laid eyes on him. 

And he got very close, a few times.

Arthur clears his throat and flexes his hand. His brow creases at the funny tugging feeling of the sutures. "Don't overdo it,” Emrys warns. “This was a one time offer, I'm not fixing it if you tear one." 

"I doubt I will, this is top notch." He looks down at Emrys with what he hopes to be an inconspicuous eye. "You’ll have to pardon my misunderstanding, but you could be a surgeon if you wanted. Piracy is so much more…” illegal, “dangerous. Why would you choose this instead?”

Emrys purses his lips as he senses the ploy to get a sob story from him. He relaxes into the chair. He crosses his legs, one over the other. His eyes meet Arthur's for the briefest of moments.

"I tried to go down a different route, you know," he says. He tacks on a dismayed sigh. "I just had… difficulties, joining society." 

"What of?" 

"Well, you see," he says, his voice quiet and tense, looking up into Arthur's wide eyes, "I was raised by wolves."

"Oh, come off it," Arthur says, realizing that Emrys is trying to put him on.

"No, really!" He says, mouth twisting as he fights off a laugh. "I lived on an island eating nothing but tree bark and raw bird eggs. My only human contact was to a tribe of cannibals. It's why I'm such a despicable savage, you know."

"Islanders don't practice cannibalism. They haven't for centuries."

"What do you take me for?"

"A liar," Arthur laughs, missing the moment Emrys sobers and looks away. "Why won't you tell me? It can't be that bad."

"You're not my friend, I don't like you, it's none of your business," he lists idly, his smile growing with Arthur's. "But… in all honesty, the mystery is far more interesting than the truth." He rises to stand, putting his tools in their proper places. He folds the leather sheet over itself. His grin is inches from Arthur's own faltering one. "Ever heard of leaving them wanting more?"

That metal rod scrapes and twists its way further into Arthur's brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing like talking about your crush to a guy you've just now realized is rlly rlly hot
> 
> next chapter has some sword fighting, some gun slinging, some flirting... you know, gay stuff
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	7. friendly competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A light hearted respite in the journey for our heroes. Arthur learns something about Emrys he hadn't known before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's better this? guys being dudes. guys getting a fucking break for once. dudes sharing some god damn laughter.

Life on a ship passes thusly:

Arthur sleeps in a hammock below deck with the rest of the crew. His hammock is above Elyan's, who stays up late tinkering with things and seems caught between overwhelming kindness and avoiding him by all means possible. As of this point, Arthur doesn't quite understand why. It will be some time before he does.

Raised with stories of cannibalism, crews eating nothing but pickled eggs and drinking nothing but rum, and hunger as an ever present companion, Arthur is shocked by the meals offered to him. Cured meats, cheeses, even fresh eggs by means of the chickens kept on board. There are stores of fresh water and barrels of wine, gin, and beer. Occasionally, when they haven't been on the open sea for long enough for them to spoil or be eaten entirely, there are fruits to eat.

Most surprising, however, is the absolute wealth of free time.

Emrys will often be speaking in hushed tones to Lancelot or Isolde, fussing over maps and compasses. There are times when he leans over the railing on the outermost side of the ship, looking out over the ocean in contemplative silence. He'll cut an apple into quarters, or peel an orange, and share the segments with Kilgharrah. Sometimes for no reason at all Kilgharrah will bite him, his golden eyes squinting shut as he forces out a raspy laugh.

There's always something to be cleaned, something to be repaired, something to be cooked, but there are so many on board the rotary of chores leaves the crew in shifts of relaxation. Some nap in the sun, some read, some tailor their clothing back into working order.

A good plenty, however, practice their swordsmanship.

Elyan parries a strike from Gwaine. He drives his sword forward and Gwaine is forced to take a step back to avoid becoming a raw kebab. Gwaine, light on his feet, takes two steps to the side and jabs Elyan just below the ribs. Like everything Gwaine does in combat it’s a risky move, and it doesn’t pay off when Elyan deflects his blow, hooks their swords together, and takes advantage of Gwaine’s unsteady footing to push him backward. He lands hard on his back with a rough wheeze.

“That’s five to three,” he says, making no move to help him up. “Best out of six?” Gwaine throws his arm over his eyes. His chest rises and falls sharply in time with his panting breaths.

“Bit of a break, actually, I think,” he says, holding the hem of his sleeve to draw it across his forehead. Elyan sighs and sheaths his sword.

“Lancelot, would you be up for a round?”

Lancelot sits on the starboard railing, his arm hooked around a stay in case he falls off. There’s a map in his lap, and he holds it down with a compass in one hand. He doesn’t look from his telescope as he says, “I’m pretty busy.”

“I don’t think we’ve strayed course in the hour since you’ve last checked,” Elyan says.

“We won’t know unless I check.”

“You’re no fun,” he says glumly. Lancelot is never so diligent in his cartography, and Elyan knows the real reason why he's so enraptured by the maps. He doesn’t wish to speak to Arthur. _No one_ does. He's an outsider, and worse - he's a royal of Camelot. Lancelot is at least kind enough to hide his aversion behind being too busy for anything else rather than outright avoiding him.

“If you’re looking for a sparring partner, I believe I could be of service,” Arthur offers from his place on an empty rum barrel. There’s a book open on his lap, one stolen from Emrys’ cabin. It’s a fairy tale, one with wizards and princesses and a true love’s kiss that saves the day. It’s an odd find in the possession of someone like the captain. Emrys can’t even use the excuse that he rarely reads it. The spine is cracked and the edges of the paper are discolored with years of page turning. The book is well loved.

It's another one of his secrets, held tight to his chest so it cannot hurt him, that he still believes in happy endings.

“Oh,” Elyan says, his shoulders tightening. “I couldn’t-- I wouldn’t ask that of you, really, I’ll find--”

“Nonsense,” Arthur says. He snaps the book closed with a creak of the binding and leaves it on the barrel when he jumps off. “I could use the practice. I’d hate to get rusty.”

“It would be to our benefit,” he jokes, and Arthur at least has the humor to laugh. He brandishes his rapier, and Elyan his cutlass. Arthur crosses the ship in a matter of steps.

“En garde,” he says, and aims the first strike.

They both hold back, initially. Elyan doesn’t want to incur Arthur’s anger, and Arthur thinks himself leagues ahead of Elyan and doesn’t wish to embarrass him. However, they’re not polite enough to _lose_ for the sake of their partner. The scrape and clang of metal carries on for far too long before they realize what’s truly going on.

Then Arthur deflects a blow Elyan aimed for his side and, in one sweeping motion, pins his sword to the floor. They’re too close for comfort, their breath hot, their shoulders pressed together, sweat pooling in the smalls of their backs. They won’t yield, won’t give the other more ground.

Elyan slams his shoulder into Arthur’s. It frees his sword, and he puts distance between them. They circle each other. Elyan tilts his head to the side. He raises his brows. Arthur grins. They close the distance with a sharp _zing_ of metal on metal.

Their dance turns heads. Arthur has been trained with a sword for as long as he could hold one, but Elyan is a commendable opponent. He’s focused, strategic, and disciplined. He fights in a variation of styles Arthur hasn’t even seen before. As he dries sweat from the side of his face with the shoulder of his tunic he promises himself to ask where he learned them, and if he could pass on the knowledge. 

Elyan finds the perfect sparring partner in Arthur - close enough to his own skill to be entertaining, but not so well above him that the match is insufferable - and his stomach gives a little twist when he realizes he’s enjoying Arthur’s company. The guilt distracts him, and before he knows what’s happening he’s stumbling over his own feet and landing hard on his elbow.

Arthur stands above him, sweat dripping from his hair, his rapier lowered to his side in a loose grip. Even through the embarrassment of his fall and his clear loss, Elyan finds Arthur’s blinding smile infectious. They laugh, and Elyan lets his head fall to the floor. Arthur bends down and offers his hand, which Elyan readily takes.

“You’re better than I expected,” Arthur tells him as he hauls him upward, “I thought you were going to get the best of me, before you took that fall.”

“So did I,” Elyan chuckles. “Up for another round?”

“Always.”

This time, Elyan pushes all thoughts to the back of his mind and throws his all into putting Arthur and himself into an even score. There are scattered cheers from the sparse crew on the top deck, most for Elyan, though in a surprising turn of events there are some for Arthur. Gwaine is one of those crewmen. He doesn’t truly care if Arthur wins, but he wants Elyan to know he’s not on _his_ side. It’s the opposition that fuels him.

In a mirror of their first match, Elyan pins Arthur’s sword. They’re shoulder to shoulder. Unlike their first round, Elyan elbows Arthur in the chest as he kicks his feet out from under him. Arthur is thrown to the ground. He hits the wooden floor so hard his sword flies out of his hand.

The first cheer is a hysterical laugh from Emrys. He’s leaning on the starboard railing next to Lancelot. He hadn’t been present when the match started. Indeed, he’d come up at the commotion of a sword fight, and had stuck around to admire them. He can’t be blamed for a little harmless opportunism.

Arthur sits up on his elbows with a grimace. He glares at Emrys, who laughs a little harder when he sees Arthur’s contempt.

“Why don’t _you_ try it, then?” Arthur calls to him. Emrys goes quiet and smug. He sinks from leaning on the railing on his hands to his elbows.

“Against you?”

“Either of us,” Arthur says.

"You'd knock me on my ass, you think?” He crosses his legs at the ankles. It’s a gross display of confidence and ease, and it does its job in annoying Arthur.

“Oh, I know,” Arthur answers. Emrys gives an exaggerated shiver, his shoulders rising to his ears, and mouths an _ooh_. He looks Arthur up and down, his tunic untucked at one hip and his hair plastered to his neck with sweat, his prominent cheekbones flushed and his eyes bright. He licks his lips and it leaves them glinting. 

He imagines what would happen if they were to engage in friendly combat. Their battles as adversaries were defined more by who shed the most blood, and Emrys especially never fought fairly. In a gentleman's duel he was sure to lose. He thinks of how that would go, pinned to the ground underneath Arthur, the pointed end of his sword held inoffensive and victorious at his throat. He clears his throat and looks away.

“Lucky for me I have nothing to prove,” he says quickly, and scuffs his heel on the ground, “especially not to you.” Arthur sits up fully and crosses his legs. He opens his mouth to say something, another challenge no doubt, but Elyan speaks first.

“It doesn’t have to be a swordfight,” he says. “Why not a show of marksmanship?”

At that, Emrys laughs. He says, “We’re not wasting the rounds.”

“I’m sure I’d beat you in that as well,” Arthur says flippantly. He's not as versed with firearms as he is with other weapons, but he's had his training. It's a cruel thought to have, but he's certain none of the men on this ship have been formally trained in anything.

“My money’s on the Captain,” Elyan admits, and Emrys fluffs at Arthur’s disgust. Arthur, at this point, remains unaware of Emrys’ marksmanship. It may have something to do with how Emrys favors his sword. It takes an awful lot of time to reload a firearm, and in the thick of battle every second counts. You have to know when to fire and when to save your rounds. Arthur has always attributed the moments where Emrys would fire his weapon and disappear behind a falling sign or tumbling stack of lashed together barrels to an overabundance of luck. This is yet another thing he's wrong about.

“ _Em_ rys?” Arthur asks. “Emrys couldn’t hit an elephant if it was charging right for him.” Emrys glares for a moment, anger at being underestimated washing over him before he can tamp it down. He shrugs.

“It’s not my fault that I'm used to much bigger targets. You, for example." Arthur rolls his eyes, but doesn't have a proper retort. Emrys pushes off from the railing. His steps are leisurely but directed as he wanders toward Arthur with his hands clasped behind his back. His competitive nature is setting in. He wants to prove Arthur wrong, but he also wants to make a bit of a fool out of him. “I bet you ten gold I can hit anything you set for me.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, completely unaware, leaning his elbows on his knees, “so you’re fine with having a little fun as long as there’s money involved.”

“Precisely.” Emrys takes his flintlock pistol from the holster on his hip. He turns it over in his hands. “Come on, pick something then.” He grins and looks to Elyan, who laughs under his breath with his tongue between his teeth as he watches Arthur rise.

"What about…" he looks about. There aren't many places to fire a gun on board a ship. Not without hurting someone, and not without doing damage to the ship itself. An aspect often taken advantage of by pirates now to the detriment of one that wishes to show off. Arthur points to the portside railing where the stairs begin. "Knock a bottle off that railing there, from where you stand, and I will give you ten gold pieces right now."

"That far?" Emrys asks, skepticism in his voice. He was hoping Arthur would ask for something a little farther - his ship is only a little over seven meters wide. Not just anyone could make a shot of that distance, but it's far too easy for someone with Emrys' skill.

"Worried you won't make it?"

"Worried you're wasting your money," he says back. Arthur groans.

"Fine. How about from there to there? Is that impressive enough for you?" He points from the sterncastle behind them to the forecastle in the front of the ship, thinking Emrys will balk at the challenge. Emrys' lips twist in a smile.

"It'll do," he says, and spins his pistol around his finger. "Gwaine?"

"You got it, Cap'n," Gwaine answers. He hurries off to find a bottle as Emrys bounds the steps to the sterncastle. Lancelot took to straddling the railing when Arthur and Elyan fought, and now watches Emrys with a look in his eye that betrays his fondness for his friend. It isn't often that Emrys lets himself be a part of the crew and enjoy himself with everyone else. He used to be a playful man. By the time Lancelot realized that the brightness in Emrys' eyes was slipping away, he thought it was too late to get that youth back.

He watches Emrys leaned over the sterncastle railing, shouting his taunts to Arthur on the main deck, beaming like a proper man of his age when Arthur cups his hands around his mouth and shouts his own back, and wonders if he was too quick to give up.

Gwaine climbs up to the forecastle holding an empty bottle, a shade too green to be properly clear. He raises the bottle high above his head. It sits on the tips of his fingers more than it's held in his hand.

"Are you insane!?" Arthur calls to him, thinking that this is bound to end in a blown off hand. He only gets a hysterical laugh in response, and considers that his affirmative.

"Ready?" Emrys shouts.

"Ready!" Gwaine answers.

Emrys cocks his pistol and takes aim. Gwaine turns his head down and away from the bottle to avoid a spray of glass into his eyes. Emrys takes a breath, steadies his hand, and fires.

The bottle explodes.

Gwaine, Elyan, and Emrys all cheer. Lancelot puts his fingers to his lips and whistles. Arthur gapes, slack jawed.

"I'll take that ten gold, now!" Emrys says, resting his chin on his fist with an insufferable grin pulling at his lips.

"Lucky shot!" Arthur argues.

"That was over twenty meters!" Emrys shouts, gesturing with his hand. "You can't pass that off on _luck!_ " Arthur rests his hands on his hips.

"Do it again, then!"

"You--!" Emrys bursts into laughter, real, genuine laughter. The kind that hardens your ribs and shakes your lungs. He can't remember the last time he laughed in such a way. "You're a real prat, you know!"

"A prat that doesn't think you could make thirty!"

"You're on!" Merlin says and turns to run up the next and last set of stairs. Elyan tosses another bottle to Gwaine. Gwaine, too, takes a handful of steps backwards. Emrys takes the time to reload. When he's finished, he raises his hand with his thumb and forefinger touched together. Gwaine raises the bottle as he did before, then mirrors the hand gesture.

Emrys cocks his pistol a second time, careful to aim in a way that he won't hit Gwaine even if he misses. And he's fully prepared to miss, at this distance, because it's so impossible, but he may just hit his mark. He fights a grin and tries to focus on the task at hand. He clears his throat. Breathes. He licks his lips and steadies his hand. He fires.

The bottle explodes.

"Holy _shit!_ " Gwaine shouts, his laughter easily heard from across the ship as he holds up his uninjured hand. Emrys holds his hands to his head and laughs away the stressed pounding in his chest. Arthur is under a crisis of his own, one hand pushed into his hair and the other hanging limp at his side.

"That's-- that's an _impossible_ shot," he says. "He _couldn't_ have made that shot." He runs his hand through his hair and lets it rest on the back of his neck. He looks up at Emrys on the sterncastle, lit from behind by the sun, hair blowing in the wind, making an obscenely rude gesture in his direction. "He's incredible," he breathes.

Elyan snorts. He tucks his hands into his pockets and inadvertently speaks for the whole of the crew when he says, "You've just now realized?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [narrator voice] and then everything went to hell
> 
> so my next update is gonna be on thursday, cause i have stuff on tuesday-wednesday. but after that i'll be posting as normal.
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	8. battleship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've sunk my battleship! You dirty pirate motherfucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is late. i wanted to post this at noon but i could barely read until like an hour ago. don't do drugs kids
> 
> anyway even tho this is late it's also LONG, 4k in fact. i couldn't split it in half without sacrificing momentum

Arthur is still reeling when Emrys runs down the stairs too fast for his own legs to carry him and hurtles straight to the ground. Watching him jump back to his feet and brush himself off only serves to confuse Arthur even further. No one else is very surprised.

"That'll be twenty gold, your highness," he says, and holds out his hand.

"Ten," Arthur answers.

"Ten to shoot once, so twenty to shoot twice. They do educate princes, do they not?" Emrys leans forward, his head tilted and patronizing. Arthur takes Emrys by the wrist and pushes his hand back to his own chest.

"I think you'll find that you took it upon yourself to fire the second shot. I don't owe you anything." Arthur's grin is light and pointed. Emrys huffs a laugh.

"You bargain well enough to be a pirate." Arthur curls his lip in an over exaggerated show of distaste.

"Don't insult me."

"What? Don't tell me you still can't stand pirates."

"They disgust me," Arthur says. Emrys' eyes skip down and back up again like a mischievous child on a hopscotch board.

"Then let go of my hand," he says. Arthur looks down. He's still holding Emrys' wrist. He yanks his hand back as if Emrys has burned him. Emrys snickers. He goes to say something, but Lancelot cuts him off.

"Captain?" He says. Unaware of what Lancelot will tell him, Emrys looks to him with a toothy smile. His lips twitch down when they meet Lancelot's eyes.

"What's the matter?" Lancelot sighs through his nose.

"We have company." He hands off the telescope to his captain. The worn lines settle back into Emrys' features like a curtain snapped shut on a once bright room. His eyebrows furrow, his lips press together, his shoulders square off. He takes the telescope and looks out over the open ocean.

There's a ship in the distance, just to the right of head on. It proudly displays the Pendragon crest on its sails, and it's much bigger than Emrys' ship. It drags through the water, the wind in its favor, leaving rolling whitecaps in its wake. When Emrys lowers the glass he can still see it on the horizon. It's gaining on them.

"Any chance they haven't seen us yet?" Emrys asks, already knowing the answer. He and Lancelot exchange a fleeting but heavy look before Emrys raises the glass a second time. His stomach does a perfectly executed somersault. It has twice the amount of canons they do. It could destroy them. But its extra protection makes it twice as heavy.

"We could try to outrun it," Lancelot offers. Emrys hums.

“That we could,” he drawls. He’s thinking.

“Oh, no,” Lancelot grimaces, “what are you thinking?” It’s sure to be dangerous. It always is. The line between daringly brilliant and dangerously stupid is remarkably thin, and Emrys is an expert in walking it. Emrys taps his fingers on the telescope.

“Chart a northbound course. We’re smaller and faster, we should be able to get away. But if they catch up to us…” He hands the telescope back to Lancelot without taking his gaze from the ship. He draws in a tense breath through his nose. “We’re not going down today.”

“Aye, Captain,” Lancelot says, still skeptical as he hurries off to find Isolde and chart their course. Emrys doesn't watch him go, focusing instead of organizing his crew.

“Gwaine, alert the crew. Ready the cannons. I’ll not be caught unprepared.” Gwaine mock salutes and runs below deck to do as he’s told. “Elyan, are your smoke makers ready for a trial run?”

“They can be,” he says.

“Make it so. If they work, we’ll need them.”

“Aye.” He claps Emrys on the shoulder and disappears behind the same door as Gwaine.

The only one left still standing is Arthur. He’s never been in this situation before. He doesn’t know how to help, only that he wants to.

“What can I do?” He asks as Emrys passes by him. Emrys stops, looks him up and down, and then back to the ship in the distance.

“You can stay out of the way,” he says. He runs up the steps two at a time, his hand skimming over the railing. Arthur wants to argue, or step in and try to help anyways, but no sooner than he takes a step to follow Elyan the ship lurches in a hard left and Arthur almost goes flying.

"Isolde!" Emrys shouts, both hands on either stairway railing, looking up at the tall woman who's digging her heels in and pulling the wheel as hard as she can.

"You asked to go north!"

" _ Gently! _ " Emrys answers. "Don't break my ship!" Isolde throws her head back and lets out a drawn  _ ugh! _ as she eases up.

The ship spins in the water. It’s risky, because it loses them the several minutes it takes to turn the boat. But if they were to set off in the direction they were headed there was no doubt the Camelot ship would catch up to them. 

That’s to presume that it won’t anyways, which it will. The Camelot ship was at full speed and headed straight for them from the beginning. Emrys’ ship, which needs to both turn in the proper direction and pick up speed, never had a chance. 

It takes an hour. An hour of lip biting and fingernail picking and hair pulling, where their cannons are loaded and their swords are dutifully drawn, before Emrys orders their sails to be hoisted. It’s going to catch up to them, he knows, and he would rather it be on their terms than on theirs.

“Elyan,” he says, holding out his hand, and Elyan takes a palm sized canvas sack with a short fuse from a bag on his shoulder and hands it over. Emrys cups his hand around the fuse as Elyan takes a little device he tinkered together from his pocket. He hits the lever and two miniature pieces of flint knock together. It kicks up sparks onto the fuse. It takes a second try to get the fuse to light. The tool isn’t entirely ready, yet, but it’s a damn sight better than matches.

The fuse burns quick and hot until it disappears into the sack. It spits out a meager puff of smoke. Elyan and Emrys look to each other.

In the next instant, the sack coughs, and smoke shoots out over them both.

They cough and splutter. It would’ve been better for them to try it under better circumstances, but everyone assumes they won’t need to defend themselves from a ship full of men trying to kill them until those men are readying their cannons.

Emrys covers his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm, squints in the direction of the Camelot ship, and chucks it over with all the strength in his arm. He can’t see it from the smoke, but through a bizarre stroke of luck the sack hits someone in the head. 

“Okay,” Emrys rasps, “let’s get it thrown a little faster next time.”

“Agreed,” Elyan coughs, and fiddles with the lever of his tool to get the next sack lit.

Isolde and Lancelot argue at the helm. Lancelot thinks they should turn the ship a second time, so their cannons are facing the Camelot ship before the ship even makes it to them. Isolde thinks that if they turn now, and the Camelot ship maintains speed, it will cut them in half.

“If they catch up to us we’ll be at the bottom of the ocean anyways!” He says. He looks over her shoulder. The Camelot ship is starting to turn. Smoke blooms over the main deck. It spills out over the sides, making it look like a ghost on the water. His eyes widen. Isolde turns at the waist to see, finds what he has, and turns back to him with panic written in her own face.

“ _ Right _ !” They say at the same time, and put both of their weights on the wheel to get the ship turning in the right hand direction.

Below deck, Gwaine sticks his head out from a cannon hatch. The waves spray ocean water over his face.

“They’re turning!” He shouts to the crew behind him. “And so are we!” He crawls back inside with the help of a tall, quiet man named Percival. “Be prepared to fire, gentlemen!”

“I don’t think I’m ready to die, yet,” Percival admits.

“No one is dying today,” Gwaine promises. He claps Percival on the shoulder with a grin that’s brightly returned. “I’d bet my life on it.”

Gwaine climbs the ladder up to the main deck and waits to relay the signal to fire.

Nothing is still, and then everything is. They wait, and they wait. The ship is too far to hit and too close for comfort. Elyan and Emrys hold off on their smoke bombs. They don't want to use them all at once. Emrys brushes the soot over his hand off on his coat and takes to reloading his pistol. The scrape of the ramrod in the barrel is deafening.

There’s a bit more waiting. It’s far on its way past suspense and into irritation. Everyone wants someone to hurry up and get this over with.

Then Emrys squints through the dissipating smoke and sees a red headed man raise his hand. In the moment before it takes for him to lower it, Emrys turns and shouts,

“ _ Gwaine! _ ”

Gwaine loosens his grip on the ladder and slides down below deck. He stumbles on the landing, claps his hands over his ears, and yells,

“ _ Fire! _ ”

Emrys’ ship fires first. The blast rocks them to the side. The cannon fire hits its mark. Holes are blown into the Camelot ship, chunks of wood are blasted into the air. The men on board sway and stumble along with their ship.

“Get us around before they regain their bearings!” Emrys orders, and the crew jumps to action in dropping the sails and getting the wind behind them. The crew below deck reload their cannons with haste. Emrys and Elyan start throwing smoke bombs a second time.

The captain of the Camelot ship is  _ livid _ .

Leon is his name, a man older than Arthur by only a handful of years with a dream of becoming a commodore before he reaches thirty, and who met the king and prince themselves at his promotion to captain.

Leon has sunk more pirate ships than he can count. He’s been in battle with even more. It's the easiest part of his job. Like Emrys’ ship, most pirate ships are equipped for speed and not combat. Camelot ships by comparison are war machines. They existed for two reasons: to safely transport nobility, and to take down pirate ships.

That being said, he’d never come across a pirate ship that gave him such a hard time. Pirates didn’t hurl smoking projectiles onto their ship. They didn’t do  _ whatever _ this gymnastic routine of turning and spinning in the water was. And they never fired first.

He is yet unaware of who he’s dealing with.

Leon kicks a smoking canvas sack away from him. He aims it between the railing posts, but it hits the railing and gets stuck instead. He nudges it over the edge with more success. The ship is moving towards them, around the bow of the ship. He doesn’t plan to let them.

“Turn the ship!” He orders to the helmsman, and he holds onto a line as the ship begins to spin. Barrels of wine tilt and tumble over. They roll over the deck, and some men holler as they’re forced to dodge them. They’re at a proper angle now, and within the perfect range - even better than before. “Men! Fire at will!”

The second it takes to relay the order stretches into hours. The cannons fire. But the pirate ship is fast in the water, and they only blast through the stern.

From somewhere on the ship, there is an anguished cry. He doesn’t hear the distraught,  _ my ship! _ that punctuates the scream, and hopes that someone has been hit.

He draws his rapier. They’re getting closer. In moments they’ll be close enough to board. He can see a man clutching a line wrapped around his wrist and a cutlass in his other hand, crouched on an outer railing and ready to jump. Leon braces himself for the worst.

Emrys tugs on the line again, an extra precaution to ensure it will hold his weight, and waits for his opening.

He finds it when their cannons fire a second time. The Camelot ship sways away from them, and then sways forward, and it tips the ship at an angle that should put him right at the main deck. He jumps, swings, and tumbles on board the Camelot ship. Emrys may not be as good as Arthur with a sword, but he’s certainly as good as a Camelot navy man. He cuts through them in time if not with ease.

Elyan is quick to join him, and then Lancelot, and even Isolde. He casts a dubious eye to their helm and finds a newer member of their crew, a boy named Gilli, shivering in every limb with fear and holding the wheel steady. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

The four of them are separated, and Emrys is pushed into a corner by a red headed man with a captain’s posture. He can’t hold his own against him, too busy deflecting blows to even reach for his pistol. His back hits a wall. He resents that this is where he meets his doom, at the hilt of a Camelot sword. He resents that he flinches and squeezes his eyes closed when the sword comes down over his head.

But no blow ever lands.

Emrys opens his eyes, holding his cutlass tight in his fist, and finds himself looking at broad shoulders and the back of a blonde head. He presses himself harder against the wall when he sees Arthur’s rapier raised to stop Leon’s sword.

“My lord?” Leon asks with utter confusion. 

Arthur’s first thought is  _ Leon? _ and his second is a resigned  _ oh, hell _ .

“Oh, hell,” Arthur answers, because that’s what he’s thinking. He isn’t sure how he’s going to get out of this one. He settles on shoving Leon backwards, and, with a quick, “Sorry, mate,” draws his fist back and punches him hard enough to send him sprawling out on the floor. He’s not knocked out, because a single punch can only do so much, but he’s down and will stay down for some time.

“Did you just--”

“Don’t be too flattered,” Arthur says, grabbing Emrys by the shoulder of his coat and dragging him back into the fray. “I’m not going to reach Guinevere with your ship at the bottom of the ocean.” 

Emrys lets himself be hauled along, his mind drawing a blank, before the shock subsides and his synapses start firing at double speed again. He pulls out of Arthur’s grip and addresses his men.

“We need to get below deck! We won’t survive another cannon blast!”

The men on board, growing in number by the minute, raise their swords and cheer to acknowledge the command. They break into the lower deck. They take the first men by surprise, and clash swords with the next. It’s a bloody, deadly battle. Those who don’t wish to engage in it start hauling barrels of wine and brandy from the Camelot ship to their own.

Emrys and Arthur find themselves fending off Camelot men on either side with their backs to one another. Leon was the only man on the ship that had ever met Arthur. Given how viciously they’re attacking him, he isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing. He steadies himself with a hand on Emrys’ hip as he ducks backward from a swipe of the sword. He deflects the next blow with a twist of his wrist. He doesn’t wish to hurt his men, for the exact reason that they’re his men. One of the things that Arthur and his father disagree on is that it’s in poor taste to attack your allies. 

Even if they don’t know they’re your allies, and are currently trying to kill you.

Arthur steps around a jab, grabs his opponent by the wrist, and brings his knee up to his stomach. His opponent doubles over with a grunt and topples to his knees. Another navy man is on him in seconds, too quickly for him to react. He knocks Arthur’s sword away in one blow, kicks his hand in the next, and Arthur’s rapier goes flying.

Emrys hears the clatter and glances behind. He sees Arthur’s sword on the ground. The navy man has his arm back to strike. Emrys shoves his opponent backward, draws his pistol from its holster on his hip, and fires under Arthur’s arm with only that one glance to aim by. The gun fires loud enough to make their ears ring in the cramped quarters. The navy man hollers and collapses, clutching his chest in agony.

Arthur looks to Emrys with wide eyes.

“Now we’re even,” he says. He’s kept his eyes off his own opponent for too long. Arthur pulls Emrys back as a sword thrusts forward with the intention to pierce his chest. In wordless exchange the cutlass passes between them. Arthur’s hand is held over his, their palms red hot and sweating, and their fingers slide against each other as Emrys releases the hilt and frees himself. Arthur steps in front of Emrys and he parries as a navy man swipes his sword across his side.

Emrys, now covered, takes a packet of gunpowder from his pocket and tears it with his teeth. He spits out the paper as he dumps it into the barrel. He drops in a musket ball, eyes on the room over Arthur’s shoulder, tamps it down with his ramrod, and ducks from behind Arthur to fire on his target. A navy man coming up behind Isolde. He catches him in the hand, forcing him to drop his sword. Isolde jumps at his scream, turns, and finishes him off.

Emrys breathes heavy as he reloads a second time. He doesn’t like not having eyes on his ship. It’s like leaving a baby in the dutiful care of slobbering wolves and telling them to play nice.

He fires on another target, stepping around Arthur this time, and his boot splashes in something. He looks down. It’s water. He dips down to look out of the cannon hatches. Waves of ocean water are pushing in and pulling out. Foam slides across the floor, rushing around his boots, and fills a growing pool of water on his left.

“We’re sinking,” he says to himself. And then, realizing his muttering helps no one, says much more loudly, “We’re sinking! Everybody out!  _ Now! _ ”

He grabs Arthur’s hand and pulls him along behind. Everyone is quick to follow, even Camelot’s men, taken over by the unifying drive for survival. They go in two separate directions - the pirates to their ship at the port side and the navy men to their lifeboats on the starboard side. With everyone who’s still alive off the ship, both parties watch it sink into the water. The lifeboats turn for the closest spot of land.

Emrys slowly sinks to sit on his heels. He drags his dirty hands down his dirty face. His usually white teeth are grey from soot. He stinks of gunpowder. His right ankle throbs and he doesn’t know why. His heart is still racing, pounding out of his chest, keeping him from collapsing right on the spot. He isn’t ready to stand, but he does anyway. He’s the captain. He doesn’t get to be tired. He has to be inexhaustible and strong for everyone else.

“Is everyone alright?” He asks, to a mixed reply. He runs his fingers through his hair. “If you’re too hurt to work then come to my cabin for surgery. Anything less, just walk it off. We’ll detour to Nemeth for repairs.”

“Nemeth?” Arthur asks. “That’s almost a week out of our way.”

“Nemeth is the closest kingdom with no laws against piracy,” Emrys says. “If I’m to repair my ship, I won’t be looking over my shoulder the entire time. We head for Nemeth.”

With that, Emrys departs for his cabin, followed by a line of bleeding men and women, tugging his coat from his arms as he does so. Sweat has plastered his shirt to his back, and Arthur has to remind himself not to stare. He attempts to sheath his sword, but finds the blade too wide. He looks down at the sword in his hand and realizes he still has Emrys’ cutlass, and that his own rapier was dropped on the Camelot ship which is still steadily sinking. All that’s visible now is the tallest mast. It’ll be at the bottom of the ocean in about ten minutes.

Arthur sighs resolutely and unbuckles his sheath from his belt. Without a blade to hold the sheath is useless. He tosses the piece of leather overboard. It barely makes a splash when it meets the water.

He makes his way below deck and searches for a new sword to use.

  
  


It takes almost a month for the navy men to reach land, acquire a new ship, and arrive back at Camelot. When they reach their native shores they’re hungry, dirty, and exhausted. They walk with the exuberance of a prison line. So much do they drag their feet that passersby search for a warden among them.

Even so, Leon does not stop until he is standing in front of the King.

“And you’re certain that’s who you saw?” The King asks, his fingers laced over his stomach as he leans back in his plush desk chair. Leon’s calves ache from walking. No seat is offered to him.

“I was close enough to be sure,” Leon says, recalling the ache in his jaw that lasted for days afterward. “It was Prince Arthur. He…” he licks his chapped lips and looks down at the sparkling marble tile. “He saved a pirate’s life, my lord. He helped them sink our ship.” The King’s fingers curl in anger.

“If you were to see this ship again, could you recognize it?”

“Without question.”

The King looks away. His eyebrows crease as deep as the mariana trench as he considers his options. He could let his son be free and make his own mistakes, of course. If he knew Arthur’s true intentions, or anything about his son at all, he would know Arthur had plans to return. But he doesn’t know, and in fact has already forgotten his discussion with Arthur about Guinevere, and only believes this to be a tantrum of insubordination and rebellion.

“You’ll tell no one of this,” he says.

“My lord?”

“My son has been kidnapped by pirates. The only explaination is that he's been brainwashed to aid them,” he says, and leans forward, his hands gripping the arms of his desk chair like talons. “His captors are to be found at once, and him to be brought back home.”

“With all due respect, your majesty, I doubt he wishes to come back. The lady Morgana--”

“My son," he says, his voice raises to interrupt before it lowers again, "is not in his right mind. He's to be brought back to me by whatever means possible. Tie him to the mast like Ulysses if you must. Do you understand?” Leon stands still. He doesn’t understand. But like any sensible man in a completely normal, not tyrannical kingdom, he doesn’t wish to risk his head by speaking out.

“I understand, my lord,” he says, and bows.

“Good.” The King rises to stand before Leon. He refrains from touching him, but offers him a smile that strains around the edges. “See to it you leave at first light,  _ Commodore _ Edwards.”

“Yes sir,” Leon says, feeling rather sickly about the title.

And so starts the most misguided search party chain in Camelot’s history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone please talk to me about arthur ditching his camelot rapier for a pirate cutlass as a metaphor for joining their side i did that on purpose it's SYMBOLIC anyways i hope you enjoyed it and thank you for reading
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com) i'm taking drabble prompts


	9. footloose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew celebrates surviving another day with excessive drinking, singing, and dancing. A few barriers come down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before we begin i'd like to say that i am not a poet. there's a reason i write in prose. there is a song in this chapter that i wrote and i did not enjoy it but it was unavoidable
> 
> also, tw for alcohol.

The quarter moon is high in the night sky. It casts smooth white light on the dark waters below. Carried on the gentle waves is a ship of over one hundred men and women. They are bruised, and tattered, and tired, and they are alive. Below the main deck, the ship is alight with their celebration.

Arthur stumbles into a stop as the music dies down. He’s glad for the reprieve. Sweat is collecting on his collar, his breath comes heavy, his cheeks are flush from brandy. Just as Leon noticed his shift in loyalty, so too have the pirates. They express their gratitude in dragging him along for lively dances and plying him with drinks and tobacco. He hasn’t had a still moment in hours.

Gwaine climbs up on a table, a tobacco pipe in one hand and a wooden tankard of rum in the other. The crowd of pirates all cheer in expectation, though for lack of experience Arthur stays quiet.

“Give me some music!” Gwaine shouts over the din, and the handful of pirates playing instruments pick up a rhythm again - among them is Percival with a drum under his arm and Elyan playing a rapid progression on a fiddle. Gwaine makes a show of clearing his throat. Someone from the crowd heckles  _ get on with it! _ and he laughs.

“Let me tell you trav’lers,” he begins, his voice lilting in song, “of a lady cruel and cold - she swept me from my fair borders, and drowned me in her deep!  _ Three cheers for the raging sea! _ ”

The pirates around Arthur all cheer on cue, raising their glasses and their tankards, drink spilling over shoulders and onto the already sticky floor.

“I am a simple sailor, I call these decks my home - the crown has made us traitors,” a grinning look to Arthur, “but our lady made us thieves!  _ Three cheers to the raging sea! _ ”

Another cheer. This time, Arthur joins with a laugh. Gwaine bends at the knee, leaning forward for a little extra dramatism, drawing rapt attention from a crowd that have all heard this song countless times before.

“Come now all you wretches, and send a prayer to Davy Jones - if your drunken arse falls to the depths, he’ll soon be meetin’ ye!  _ Three cheers for the raging sea! _ ”

The crowd cheers once more. The crowd starts to break into formation for another dance, and the band pulls together for it as well, but Gwaine calls them back to him. The pirates exchange a sprinkling of odd looks. The song was only meant to have three verses, short and easy to remember compared to the long ballads shared on more sober nights. Regardless of their doubt, Gwaine jumps into a final verse.

“There can be no deny’n it,” he says, “the waves make friends of foes - a Pendragon took side with pirates, and made a friend of me!  _ Three cheers for the king to be! _ ”

A final, ear splitting cheer, and Arthur is getting tugged this way and that like a leaf in a river current. They slap his back and ruffle his hair and someone pulls him in for a rough kiss on the cheek. It’s so incredibly lively that Arthur doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s never been the subject of so much open affection.

The music kicks back up at twice the speed and thrice the volume, and the crowd of bodies spins into a dizzying flurry of motion. Arthur backs away from it with the excuse of getting another drink.

“You’re awfully popular tonight,” Emrys says from his right, his hands clasped behind his back. Arthur  _ shew _ ’s a little exasperated breath and rolls his eyes to tell him exactly what he thinks of it, though he can’t contain his smile. It is gladly returned. Emrys holds out his hand, palm upward. “Join me for a dance, your highness?”

“It would be an honor, Captain,” he says, and slips his hand into Emrys’ grip. He takes a step forward, but Emrys stops him with a hand on his chest. Isolde and her husband Tristan swing past at full speed. Isolde's shoulder has been sewn back together, and Tristan's nose is freshly crooked. They laugh like madmen.

"Now," Emrys says, and pulls him into the twisting, spinning hurricane of dancers. They intertwine their fingers. Emrys' hand rests on Arthur's waist and Arthur's hand is on Emrys' shoulder, but they aren't close enough to touch otherwise.

They skip with their crewmates, their clasped hands lowering with one step and raising in the next. Emrys lifts his hand from Arthur's side, steps back with his hand still in Arthur's, and Arthur takes the cue and ducks his head under Emrys' arm when he spins. They're grinning when they bump back into each other, fumbling with their hands and giggling with embarrassment at their proximity.

Emrys glances over his shoulder, turns them, and starts weaving them through the crowd. The dancing steadily increases in speed as they get nearer to the eye of the storm. Arthur presses closer to Emrys, hoping that being glued chest to chest will help him avoid a stumble. Emrys' hand moves from his hip to the small of his back and grins at him. 

In the exact center of the crowd are Lancelot and Gwaine. They spin around each other, hands clasped and ankles hooked together, smiles so wide their cheeks are bunched and their eyes are squinted. Without so much as a stumble they jump from one leg to the other, switch hands, and skip in the opposite direction.

This is where Arthur quirks an eyebrow at Emrys and gets a challenge of a smile in return. They jump into the center, staggering apart. Emrys narrowly misses getting hit by Lancelot's hand.

Emrys takes the long ends of his coat in his hands. He stomps his feet and swishes his coat tails in time with the music as a lady would with the fabric of her dress. Arthur's head tips back from his laughter.

"You're crazy!" Arthur says over the music.

"Name me one person in their right mind who ever had a good time!" Emrys answers, and he takes Arthur's offered hand. Arthur tugs him forward and Emrys spins, his own arm crossed over his chest as Arthur passes their hands over his head, and they meet with Emrys' back to Arthur's chest. They trade hands, Emrys reaching for Arthur's right hand with his own right instead of his left, Arthur's left hand on Emrys' hip. Emrys looks over his shoulder and their faces are incredibly close together, breathing in the same smoky air, sharing the same body heat. 

They grin. They don't slow their dance for an instant.

Not until the music crescendos and stops, and everyone is left laughing and breathing heavy and holding a stitch in their sides. They break apart, Arthur giving Emrys' hand one last squeeze before he lets go completely.

For a moment, every painful circumstance that has led them here fades into obscurity. There are no lies, no laws to run from, no vendettas to uphold. Only tobacco in their throats and booze on their tongues and a burn in their lungs that goes ignored when the music starts up again and Emrys looks to Arthur with an unspoken question in his eyes. There is a pause no longer than it would take for a glass to tip over and fall off a table, which is exactly what happens before Arthur links their arms together at the elbow.

They throw themselves into the next dance. And the next. They don’t take a different partner for some time.

Midnight is there and gone before the party even thinks of dying down. Arthur has managed to start sweating pure alcohol. He's never smoked so much in his life. He's swinging on a cloud, one that runs away from his feet at every step.

The room is thick, and crowded, and far too hot. But he can't seem to find Emrys, and the room feels cold and lonely without him. There's a name for that feeling, to be lost in the absence of someone else, but he's too drunk to put his finger on it.

"Have you seen--"

"He's up top," Lancelot says, leaning heavily against a wall and lighting a pipe with an overturned candle. He goes to set the candle back on a table, misses terribly, and watches it forlornly as it skitters over the ground. It has a delightful time of trying to burn a hole through the floor. Arthur steps on the flame to murder it in cold blood. Lancelot looks up at him with glassy eyes.

"Emrys?" Arthur asks, and Lancelot smiles as he takes a drag from his pipe.

"Who else would you be looking for?" He answers, and claps Arthur on the shoulder. He pushes off from the wall with a grunt and walks his hip straight into the corner of a table. He steadies himself with his arms spread and then carries on.

Arthur watches him with some concern, but makes for the direction of the main deck instead of checking in on him. Lancelot will collapse into a chair with a bottle of gin tucked safely in his arm, and sleep soundly until dawn.

Arthur climbs up to the main deck. It's a stark contrast from inside, not quite cold but cool, with a wind that trails its fingers over Arthur's cheeks and through his hair like a shameless lover. The deck is open, and empty. He hadn't realized how hard it was to breathe in the lower deck.

Emrys is slumped against the starboard railing, his two fists stacked one on top of the other and his chin resting at the top of the tower. He taps his boot on the wood floor in an idle rhythm. His eyes are firmly on the ocean, but when Arthur comes up beside him he leans over and bumps his side.

They stand in silence. Not a bristling, stewing silence, but a settled silence. The silence that exists only between married people and enemies who are starting to believe that is no longer so, and also sometimes in libraries. Arthur rests his elbows on the railing and leans his full weight against it.

"Lovely view," he says. Emrys hums.

"Best in the world," he answers. It's silent for a heartbeat more, and then Emrys says, "You're quite the dancer." Arthur huffs a little laugh.

"Not bad for a beginner, I suppose."

"You don't dance?"

"Only in the ballroom," he says.

"It can't be that different."

"You'd be surprised," Arthur says, and leans back while still gripping the railing. "It's slower, for one. Much slower. It's more about following steps than a rhythm." 

"I've never done anything like that," Emrys says. "Always wanted to know what it was like, y'know, with the…" he swings his hand back and forth, "but… well. You know how it is." He sighs and settles back on the railing. Arthur looks down at him for a long moment. He bites his lip in indecision, then offers his hand. 

"Here. I'll show you." Emrys looks down at his hand, up at his face, and back down at his hand. Arthur wiggles his fingers.

"We don't have any music," Emrys says, though he takes Arthur's hand all the same. His fingers are cold. The urge comes over Emrys to stick Arthur's hands in his coat pockets to warm them. He shivers, and blames it on the breeze.

"We don't need it. It's about the steps, remember?" Arthur guides him to the center of the deck. "First, you bow to your partner," he says, and takes a step back to do so. Emrys curtsies. Arthur is grinning as he closes the distance to put a hand on Emrys' lower back. Arthur makes a wrong turn in Emrys' eyes and gets lost. He almost forgets he's supposed to be leading. "Now put your hand on my shoulder," he says lightly. There's no urgency here to distract from how far apart they aren't. They're close enough for Arthur to smell the gunpowder and smoke that still clings to Emrys' hair despite a rigorous washing, and for Emrys to count the freckles on Arthur's nose which are barely visible from any distance.

The ship bobs gently with the waves. Something warm and yellow makes its home in Emrys' chest, pushing between his ribs to give his lungs a good talking to. His fingers curl in the fabric of Arthur's tunic.

"Now what?" He asks, quiet as a mouse and just as timid. 

"Now we move," he says, "like this." He takes a step backward, the hand on Emrys' lower back guiding him along. They glide into a turn, take a step, turn again. Arthur chuckles as Emrys stares down at their boots, looking much like he's two inches away from kicking a very sweet dog with every movement. He ducks his head down to Emrys' ear and says, "Don't look down, it's bad etiquette," before he raises their hands for Emrys to spin under.

"You'll be singing a different tune when I step on you," Emrys says, but keeps his eyes on Arthur's. It's a bit of a mistake, really, because Emrys is so very close and maintaining eye contact makes Arthur so very dizzy.

"You've done much worse, I think I can handle it." Emrys' stomach turns over as he muses to himself that Arthur doesn’t even know the half of it.

"That I have." He presses his lips together. He skims his hand over Arthur's shoulder to his collarbone, where that scar lies. It hadn't been an accident. Or, it had been, in the sense that Emrys was going for his throat at the time. He thumbs the collar of Arthur's tunic. "I'm sorry, for the record." They turn. "You didn't deserve it."

Arthur disagrees.

"Neither did you."

Emrys disagrees.

"Do you ever regret it?" Arthur asks. Emrys looks out over the ocean before it swings out of view.

"What, meeting you? Every day." He gives an easy grin to combat his uneasy insides, and Arthur slides his hand up Emrys' back to tug at his hair.

"I meant this." He looks up and around, to the ship and the ocean and the sky. "The piracy, the running, the fighting… aren't you tired?"

"Everyone's tired, in their own ways, all the time." It's Emrys that raises their hands this time, and Arthur who ducks under them. A little unconventional, for the one leading to be pulled into a spin. But it's a little unconventional for the dance to be between two men, so it is left unsaid. "Piracy is in my blood. If I chose a different path, became some fisherman that never left the village I was born in, I'd spend every day looking at the horizon and wondering what I missed."

"It really doesn't bother you?"

"I never said that," Emrys says, his muscles tensing under Arthur's hand. "What about you?" Emrys asks.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You." They turn. "It doesn't bother you, having to be your father's lackey?" Emrys takes a step back, but he is not followed by Arthur, and they drift apart.

"I'm not a lackey, Emrys. I'm his son. Doing what he asks is called loyalty."

"Is that what he told you?"

Arthur very much means to say something cutting, because that’s an assumption that Emrys has no business making. But the problem is, well, yes. The King, who Arthur has tentatively, for the time being, until further evidence can be gathered, decided is a liar, told him as such.

"God dammit, Emrys," he says with an exaggerated sigh, and steps back into Emrys' space. Emrys pulls him back close with his arm slung over Arthur's shoulders. He pats Arthur hard on the back.

"This ignorance is exactly why I can't stand you," Emrys says.

"Oh, just as well, your smug righteousness is why I can't stand you." They're just drunk enough that they don't hold back from their giggles.

Now would be a good time for Emrys to come forward about the whole Guinevere business. Well, it’s never really a good time to admit to deceit, but if there were any time to say it, it would be in this moment. Where Arthur is in high spirits and mellowed by drink and fatigue and company.

But he does not choose this moment to tell the truth.

Because Emrys is a person, and people are messy, selfish creatures. And there’s a contentment between them, one that has not ever existed before, and the fear of losing it is greater than the desire to be honest.

So they part as friends, and sleep heavy in two very separate beds, and muse to themselves what life would be like if things were a little different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting somewhere, y'all. we're on the way
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	10. mithian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emrys has a very important discussion, and makes another phony promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a very exciting chapter this time. but an important one! and mithian is here.

"How close are we to Nemeth?" Emrys asks for the, approximately, eight billion three hundred and sixty fifth time, his head bowed to the map in Lancelot's hands. Lancelot takes a patient breath.

"We're here, actually," he says. Emrys looks up quick enough to break his neck.

"Really?"

"No. But that's what it'll sound like when we get there." Lancelot smiles unkindly and receives a glare in response.

"Why are you so anxious to get to Nemeth?" Arthur asks. He’s fiddling with a length of rope, trying to turn it into a knot through will power alone. Gwaine only gave him the steps to tie it once, and he’s already forgotten half of them and is too stubborn to ask a second time. "It's just an island. _Barely_ an island. There's nothing there."

"Oh, there's something there alright," Lancelot says, looking exceedingly proud of himself.

"Or should we say some _one_ ," Gwaine pitches in, resting his arms over the thick coil of rope slung over his neck. "You're a prince, Arthur. Ever heard of Princess Mithian?" Arthur scoffs.

"Of course I've heard of her. I've met her once or twice. Why does that-- do _you_ know her?" He asks Emrys as accusing as a lawyer in court, going so far as to point his finger. Emrys bats Arthur’s hand away, but Arthur raises it again just as quickly. They both grin, and Emrys slaps his hand again. Gwaine’s snickers draw their attention. Emrys’ eyes hold a dangerous warning that goes unheeded.

"Yeah, biblically."

"Gwaine!" Emrys scolds, his face at a low simmer. Arthur makes a show of taking an affronted step back with his hand on his chest.

"You debauched a _princess_?" He asks. Even his tone is laced with shock. The twist of anger in him is simply in defense of Mithian's honor, and not a hectic path of jealousy to guilt at his jealousy to confusion at his guilt to, finally, anger at his confusion.

Emrys rolls his eyes at his dramatics, though there is a similar twist in his gut, though one of embarrassment, a negative feeling that has never been paired with the notion of Mithian before.

"Not that it’s any of your business, but she came on to me.”

"The first time," Lancelot says, and kicks Emrys' boot. Emrys sighs. Arthur runs his hand through his hair with stress.

"How many times have you done this to her?"

Lancelot and Gwaine start counting on their hands. Unable to stop them, Emrys hides behind his.

"Four."

"I got six.”

“Six?”

“I’m just assuming it goes on every time we’re in Nemeth.”

“Will you both just--”

"That's six times too many!" Arthur says. "If someone finds out-- do you have any idea how hard it is for women who aren't virgins to marry? Her life would be ruined!" In fact, the King once tried to arrange a courtship between Mithian and Arthur. He wanted control of Nemeth through marriage - he wanted to cleanse it of the pirate safe haven it had become. It didn’t work out, for that exact reason, but Arthur learned enough about her in that time to care for her as a person.

"Mithian doesn't _want_ to marry, Arthur," Emrys says, rubbing his eye, "she just wants to be free to do whatever she wants to do. Which is incredibly difficult, by the way, married or not."

"Unless you have a lover to sweep you away to paradise," Gwaine says, and receives an open palmed slap in the gut. Lancelot sniffs and crosses his arms as Gwaine grunts. 

"None of this has anything to do with you," Emrys says, “any of you. I don't need to justify myself, and she certainly doesn't, so you-- please, be quiet.”

"Aren't you a champion for women's freedom," Arthur says with the expected amount of sarcasm. Emrys presses his lips together and hums in an equally scathing smile.

"Just-- Lancelot, tell me when we're close. I need to be ready with our inventory and to make arrangements for dry docking."

"Are we going to dock at the royal port, or just you, Captain?" Emrys draws back his fist and makes a quick step forward, and Lancelot jumps away with his hands raised in surrender, laughing along with everyone else.

Arthur was right to describe Nemeth as _barely_ an island. It could be crossed on foot in a day. It’s surrounded almost entirely by ports, and their main source of income is from the cost of docking. As such Nemeth was firm in allowing pirates sanctuary on their borders. Business is business, after all.

They do dock at the royal port. All ports in Nemeth are under the royal seal, but this in particular is closest to the palace, and is used only by friends of the royal family. When Arthur visited Nemeth as a boy, they used this port. He doesn’t ask what Emrys could have done to allow himself the same treatment as royalty.

The moment they’re secure in port, Emrys jogs down the ramp to get down to the dock. He folds a piece of parchment lined with what they need for their repairs and for the rest of their voyage, and hides it nice and secure in the inside pocket of his coat.

"Don't wait for me," he says.

"You're disgusting," Arthur calls back, that angry twist churning his stomach. Emrys gives a hollow, ingenuine laugh and shrugs.

The truth is, despite the occasional fling, Emrys' love for Mithian does not rely purely on the physical. Mithian is a good natured woman, kind and free spirited, and she is a cherished friend. She loves adventure but is barred from having her own through her birth, and her talks with Emrys let her live vicariously through his stories.

Which is how Emrys finds himself, feeling very dirty on a very clean marble floor, his hands clutched in Mithian's as she looks up at him with rosy cheeked delight.

"So," she says, not for the first time, "tell me _everything_."

He doesn’t tell her _everything_ . He tells her of blue skies and close calls and rough seas, but he doesn’t tell her about Guinevere and her royal lover and her other royal _not_ lover. But it makes a pit in his chest, because Mithian is one of the few people Emrys prides himself in never lying to - a habit grown from her desire to know the life he leads for better and for worse.

So, leaning back on a lounge with her legs thrown unladylike over his own, he tells her the truth. Because she deserves to know. And because Mithian is smart, and frankly the situation is turning itself into a right mess with the growing acceptance that despite his laundry list of faults Arthur may not be a terrible person and doesn't entirely deserve to be strung along in this way, and a part of him hopes that she could make better sense of it than him.

Her response, told as she thoughtfully tears a piece of pastry, is, “That sounds bad.”

“It is bad.”

“That’s why I said it.” She chews her pastry, and then tears off another piece with her teeth. “You know you have to tell him.”

“Well, see,” Emrys says, and shifts so he’s propped up on his elbow beside her, “do I? Because I’ve been lying and nothing bad has happened. Quite the opposite. Arthur and I…” he looks off at a papered wall, “I wouldn’t call us friends, but it’s certainly an improvement. He’s even learning about his father.” He takes a pastry from the plate on the coffee table by them, tears it in half, and shoves an entire half into his mouth at once. He's still chewing when he says, “Really, this lie is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“And when he finds out, what will you say then?”

“That’s _if_ he finds out.”

“So you’d-- Emrys. You believe Arthur to be a good person?” Emrys narrows his eyes. He swallows his pastry and wishes he had something stronger than water to wash it down with. He knows she’s going somewhere with this, and that he isn’t going to like it.

“Underneath almost everything about him, I suppose he has the ability to occasionally be a somewhat good person,” he says, laying it on thick to better defend his own argument, even though if he were asked without the threat of taking down his scot free life plan he may have just come out and said it outright.

“So you would let him spend all this time, Arthur, a _good_ person, thinking that the love of his life is off kidnapped somewhere being tortured or some other horrible thing? That he is running in circles while the person he cares about is in danger and there’s nothing he can do to help her?”

Emrys looks down at his hands. He scrapes his nail over a callus on his palm.

“And worse, if he finds out, he will know that you could have told him that she was safe at any time, and you did not.” Mithian licks her thumb, covered in sugar. “Do you know how unkind that is?”

“Yes,” he admits, and sets the remaining half of his pastry back down on the table. He’s lost his appetite, now. Mithian has not, and picks it up to finish it off for him. “It’s not exactly easy, you know, coming out about it.”

“The right choice isn’t always the easy one,” she reminds him, and he sighs. “The worst thing that could happen is that he hates you again. It’s not like you’re unused to it.” Emrys huffs a miserable little laugh. He hadn’t realized how attached to this new friendship he’d become until his heart jumped up and ran off to the other room at the mere mention of a return to their old ways.

“I don’t want him to hate me again,” he admits with some effort.

“Then tell him,” Mithian says. “Because if he finds out for himself, I promise you he will.”

“I will tell him." He raises his hand. "Hand to God."

"Good." Mithian gathers her hair off the back of her neck and turns it over her shoulder. She leans back on her elbows and inches her leg up his thigh. He stills her with a hand on her shin, that queasy shame rising for what feels like no rhyme or reason. She looks from his hand to the way his eyebrows are creasing like a buckled plank of wood to his worrisome lips.

Mithian is an incredibly smart woman.

"You look good, by the way," she says casually, crossing her leg safely back over the other. "Brighter. Anyone to thank for that?"

"I don't know what you mean," he says with a clueless smile. Mithian tilts her head against her shoulder. She wonders if he's putting on another one of his fronts. She lets him change the subject, and does not mention it again.

Emrys leaves fully intending to tell Arthur when he returns to his ship. He walks up the dock, and his confidence wavers, but he is no less determined. He journeys up the ramp to his ship, and the trepidation sets in, but he made a promise, so he tucks his hands in his pockets and tenses his shoulders and carries on.

He steels himself before he steps on board. Arthur is sweaty and beaming as he trots up to Emrys. Lancelot and Percival are behind, grappling on the main deck, cheered on by Gwaine and Isolde, Elyan and Tristan watching over with a piece of parchment and charcoal between them.

“What is…?” He trails off when Arthur takes him by the wrist, his palm like a hot coal on his skin. Emrys looks down at where their hands are connected. Clearly, Arthur intended to lead him somewhere, but he currently isn’t, and is just standing in place holding Emrys’ wrist.

“We’re betting on who’s the best wrestler on board. Percival is in the lead. Do you want to place a bet?”

“What? No. Arthur, I need to tell you something.”

There’s a shuffle, and they both crane their necks to see Lancelot with his leg pinning Percival’s arm and Lancelot’s arm crooked around Percival’s neck in a choke hold. Percival struggles, goes weak, and taps the ground moments before he would have passed out entirely.

“Well, damn,” Arthur says in surprise, and rests his hand on the back of his neck. “Lance sure is a wild card, isn’t he?”

Emrys recoils at the nickname. No one ever calls Lancelot _Lance_. Not without his permission. Not if he doesn’t like them. His throat tightens.

“Arthur, it’s really important,” he tries again. Elyan whistles at them and spreads his arms, the universal sign for _well, are you coming?_

“It’s my turn again,” Arthur explains. “It can wait until later, yeah?”

“No,” he says, but Arthur is already clapping Emrys on the shoulder and running off in the direction of the crew, and there’s nothing Emrys can do to stop him. Arthur has finally discovered what it’s like to have friends, ones that don’t shy from slamming him a little too hard into the ground or beating him in competition, and he’s entirely too pleased with the development.

Emrys watches from the sidelines, chewing his thumbnail, as Arthur squares off with Gwaine. Gwaine pulls his tunic over his head and throws it to the side. Arthur throws his head back as he laughs, but does not do the same. Isolde counts down, and at the end of the count the two men grapple and attempt to pin each other to the ground.

Gwaine hooks his leg behind Arthur’s knee, but Arthur throws his arm behind Gwaine’s neck as he goes down and lets his entire weight drop. Both men topple and hit the floor in a painful tangle of limbs.

Emrys sighs, his shoulders deflating, and tosses a coin in Elyan’s lap in Arthur’s name.

He promises himself that he’ll do it. He will.

He’s not going to. At least, not in time for Arthur to find out for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know wrestling is like, probably anachronistic. but arthur pendragon used a fucking punching bag in canon which is set in the medieval times so i will literally do whatever i want
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	11. repairs and realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little late night conversation. Because what better way to realize your true feelings than to discuss them over insomnia and booze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> auhghgn i know i skipped a day but i was busy. i'm about to be a lot busier, so until further notice i'm doing one update a week, on wednesday, cause i don't want to get behind and rush and put out writing that i'm not proud of.

“I don’t understand why you’re putting me to work when I’m the one paying you.” Arthur says. Much like when he loaded and unloaded the boxes at the beginning of his quest, Arthur is completely unfamiliar with the task at hand. He was never one to repair a ship. It was more within his station to stand to the side and watch as his ship was repaired for him. His shoulders ache from holding up heavy wooden boards. His hands sting from the constant chafe of rope. His face is hot and flushed from the effort of the day, and his tunic is soaked through with his sweat.

He isn’t the only one tired, but he is the only one complaining about it.

“How about,” Emrys says, holding up a plank while Elyan hammers it into place, “because it was men sailing under your flag that blasted holes in my ship in the first place? Or maybe because we never would have been intercepted if we weren’t on a goose chase for Guinevere?” Who Emrys still hadn’t come out and told the truth about. It weighs heavier on his mind than before his conversation with Mithian, more like an iron anchor than a wet blanket, but the guilt is yet to be a successful motivator. “Or, perhaps, because I am the captain, and if you want to stay on my ship you’ll do as I ask?”

“Fair point,” Arthur says, and digs his heels in to keep the rope from slipping out of his hands and sending the wooden panel it’s attached to careening to the ground. Emrys watches the muscles in his chest move as he pulls, and blames his dry mouth on the heat of the day. He shifts his grip on the plank and glues his eyes to the wood grain.

Arthur's not frustrated or tired enough to give up, at any rate. Despite his lack of experience he does know one thing, and it’s that repairing a ship takes plenty of effort and plenty of time. Repairs are only just getting started. They easily have two weeks left until the ship is up to scratch.

By the time they’re back on course, Leon and his new ship will be well on their way to finding them. Currently, though, they’re still adrift in their little lifeboats.

They work and toil until the sun is lowering in the sky, turning the ocean into a glittering and blinding reflection and stretching their shadows like comically tall phantoms. Try as they might, it is impossible to work without adequate light, and they call it quits when Lancelot damn near obliterates his own thumb under a hammer. 

Gwaine and Elyan approach Arthur as he is nursing his aches. There is no trepidation in how they come upon him, no guard or hesitation. Their discomfort is long forgotten, replaced by an affection as fierce and natural as sunlight on burning hot sand. It’s not an affection rarely given, but it is one hard earned. 

“We’re going to find another ship,” Elyan tells him, and raises a bottle of rum by the neck, “see if we can crash a party.”

“You should come along,” Gwaine cuts in. Arthur massages his own shoulder and looks down. He’s unable to tamp down his own smile, but there’s a tension in his fingers that gives the men pause.

“I would love to,” he says, “but I think I’d rather get some sleep.”

“Trust me, you’ll not sleep a wink without a little help,” Gwaine says, but Arthur waves them off.

“Go on without me,” he says. 

Elyan punches him firmly in the shoulder, smiling wide, and relents. He’s grown to think that if Guinevere loved Arthur back he wouldn’t be opposed to finding a brother in him. He wonders if he should ask her permission to let them find her. Maybe she could explain it better than they ever could. Maybe, if it came from her, Arthur could understand, and there would be a chance at salvaging their friendship. Because somehow that’s one thing that Elyan doesn’t want to lose.

The two men filter off from the ship. They’re followed by Tristan and Isolde, walking with their arms linked around each other’s waists as if to depart would cause pain, as well as Percival, in comfortable silence with Lancelot, and a handful of other crew men who serve to be little more than filler for Arthur’s perception.

Arthur is one of a few that stay. That few includes Emrys. Emrys cites fatigue and distaste for the company of his own crew, which is answered to with boos and harmless physical assaults.

The sun departs completely, and the world is silent in her absence. Emrys reads by candlelight on the forecastle. Kilgharrah is tucked up into his neck and falling asleep. Arthur bids him goodnight before he turns in for an early rest, and receives a noncommittal grunt for an answer.

Unfortunately, Gwaine was absolutely correct. All attempts at sleep are completely unsuccessful. The strain of the day settles into his joints and his muscles, and relaxing becomes completely impossible. His face pinches as he struggles to ignore the pain in his body, and finally sighs when he understands the inevitable failure of that task.

It hasn’t become a habit quite yet. But since their little dance, more and more Arthur has found himself forgoing the tossing and turning on nights he can’t sleep and merely taking a walk up to the main deck. Emrys is always present, stargazing or reading or simply looking out over the water. Arthur assumes that Emrys has always spent his nights this way, and that Arthur is no more than a welcome intrusion. However, Emrys tends to read in his own cabin when he struggles to sleep. He only began lingering outside after he encountered Arthur there. He, also, thinks himself to be an addition to an established routine.

Just as Arthur expected, Emrys hasn’t retreated to his cabin for the night just yet. He’s sitting exactly where he was before, though significantly closer to the end of his book. Arthur sticks his hands in his pockets and makes his way up the stairs to the forecastle, looking out over the water instead of who he’s so clearly coming to see.

The floorboards creak under him, and Emrys glances upward once before looking back down. His fingers tighten around the pages of his book. He reads the same sentence three times before Arthur joins him, lingering just to the side, but he turns the page and continues to stare at the lines to keep Arthur from feeling too incredibly important. There’s no sense in fluffing an ego as big as Arthur’s.

“Can’t sleep?” He asks. 

“I can sleep,” Arthur says. He lowers himself to the ground next to Emrys. Their shoulders are pressed together. Emrys crosses his legs at the ankle to keep himself from fidgeting. “I’ve simply chosen not to.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound insane at all.” He dog ears his page and shuts the book, setting it down next to himself. With the same hand, he retrieves a brown glass bottle of brandy. Kilgharrah croaks as the motion causes him to stir, and Emrys pets the backs of his fingers over his chest to quiet him. He hands the bottle over to Arthur’s waiting hand. “This helps.”

“Is there anything that you don’t prescribe with alcohol?” Arthur asks, pulling off the cork and taking a sip anyways. 

“It can’t cure stupidity,” Emrys answers, and accepts the bottle when it’s handed back to him.

“Not for lack of trying, in your case,” he says. Emrys licks his lips to hide his grin before he takes a sip.

“It’s how I know better than to try with you,” he says. He doesn’t see Arthur’s returning smile. He can’t feel the way Arthur’s lungs seize. He takes a second sip for himself before he holds it out again. He scratches the back of his head. Now would be a good time. It's quiet, it's calm. No chance for interruptions.

"You know, it's been almost ten years since I was on a ship," Arthur interrupts. "I was on my way here, to marry Mithian." Emrys makes an incredulous noise. Mithian never told him that she was betrothed to Arthur, though if she simply mentioned his name Emrys would have stopped listening. "I hated it. She hated it too." He goes to take a sip from the bottle but pauses, the glass mouth touched to his lower lip. "She came out to greet us-- you know how people look when they've been crying and have just composed themselves?"

"Jesus Christ," Emrys says, horrified, and Arthur nods.

"All…" he gestures to his face, "red and swollen. I thought she would burst into tears just shaking my hand."

"Anyone would have that reaction to the thought of marrying you," Emrys jokes, and Arthur laughs before he finally tips the bottle back and drinks. Emrys reaches out for the bottle too soon and their fingers fit over each other. They linger for longer than would be necessary to shift their grip. Their eyes pass by each other on the way to somewhere else. The moment they intersect, they both let go. The bottle drops to the ground. They both grab for it to stop a spill. Emrys' hand stutters and jerks back when Arthur grabs hold of the bottle. Haltingly, like he's waiting for Emrys to yank it from his hands, he holds it out. Emrys feels a horrid shaking in his hand as he takes it, but there is no visible tremble. Arthur watches him for a decade of a second before he looks away again.

"Maybe." He leans back against the mast and sinks down until his chin tucks up to his chest. He crosses his arms and curls his chilled fingers into themselves. Emrys takes a last swallow of brandy and sets the bottle aside. He struggles with the cork. "It's just how it is. Everything is arranged. I-- Before I came here, I'd never seen anyone in love."

Emrys stills. Flexes his fingers. Looks intently at a scuff in his boot. He cups Kilgharrah in his hand and slides down until he's on his back. Kilgharrah chirps and bites his finger for it, but settles back down with his head behind Emrys' ear. Emrys takes a deep breath and wishes he hadn't left his tobacco pipe in his cabin.

"My parents were in love," he says eventually.

"You had parents?" Arthur asks with mock incredulity. Emrys breaks into genuine laughter.

"I did, yeah, two of them." He digs his nails into a scratch in the side of his finger left by a rough plank of wood. "My father was a… he wasn't a happy man. But you should've seen him when he looked at my mother. He used to tell me the sun set in her eyes." He chuckles. "I still don't know what the hell he meant by it."

"I think I do," Arthur says, his head bobbing as he contemplates it. Emrys rolls his eyes.

"Oh, I forget, you're in  _ love _ ," Emrys says, uncertain where the distaste in his tone is coming from. Arthur glowers and doesn't answer. "Out with it, your majesty, what does it mean?"

"Well, it's-- it's--" his words stumble like a freshly born colt, something instinctual within him understanding but his conscious, experienced knowledge coming up empty. He should know, but he can’t find the words.

He thinks of Guinevere's eyes. Knowing and sometimes glinting with humor. They were brown. When the sunlight caught them they were golden. Her eyelashes were long and curled. 

They're beautiful. Of course they are. When she looked at him, he felt seen, and there was an obsession inside that - to feel like a person in the company of another. But what else is there? Everyone on Emrys' ship  _ sees _ him. It doesn't mean they love him. It doesn't mean he has to love them in return.

His throat clenches. For all his ideas of romanticism, what does he truly know of love?

Arthur looks to Emrys, still staring at him with a touch of confusion and a dash of concern at Arthur's silence. Emrys' eyes are wide and dark and barely blue in the dim of the night, and his chest is tightening, and something, maybe, makes sense, and he’s blurting, "It's like when you're looking over the ocean, and you realize you’re alone on the horizon, and it finally comes into perspective how small you really are.” Emrys’ eyebrows twitch together. The words are still coming, like someone else wrote them and stuffed them into his brain to say, and he continues, “You’re standing at an immeasurable depth, no idea what's in the water below you, and you should feel… afraid, or-- or insignificant, but you don’t. You simply have this,” he runs his tongue over his lower lip, still staring directly into the ocean of Emrys' eyes, “this sense of awe. Of appreciation that something so vast and powerful could exist. And you can’t look away.”

He looks down at his hands, his fingers interlaced and twisting against each other like overlapping tree roots.

“Something as such, anyways.”

Emrys is silent. Unlike Arthur, he doesn’t avert his gaze, and his eyes burn holes into the side of Arthur’s face. 

He disagrees, only slightly. He doesn’t see a sunset or a roiling ocean. He looks at the flush on Arthur’s cheeks that is barely visible in the candle light, and the way his shy eyes flick up to meet his before dropping back down, and decides that it’s much more like looking at a sunrise. To feel the first rays of blue in the morning, thawing out your cold bones and throwing a blanket of golden fleece over every visible inch of the earth. To stand, grounded, and watch the world come to life from above, and to know that the light will always return, that nothing - no grief, no anger, no joy - can stop the earth from turning.

Emrys’ stomach turns over so violently he worries he’ll have to run to the side of the ship and heave. Instead he swallows, thick and terrible, and squeezes his eyes closed. 

“Guinevere’s a lucky woman,” he says through a cracking voice, “to be so loved.” Arthur drags the heel of his boot over the ground. Guilt nudges at the back of his mind at the thought of being congratulated for loving her. He has no less concern for her than before. She was his friend then, and is his friend still, and he does love her in the way you would love a gaggle of rowdy pirates that give you nothing but laughter and devotion. But he doesn’t love her in the way that frightens you, that drowns you in your own desire until you could not breathe for all the air in the world.

“Right, lucky,” he answers. “Excluding the kidnapping, and whatever else has happened to her since.” Emrys takes a breath to build his courage. He mourns everything between Arthur that is and that could be in the infinitesimal moment between one second and the next.

“About that, Arthur…”

“No, really, it’s alright,” Arthur says, thinking Emrys is about to apologize for his non-commitment to her rescue, and reaches out to touch his hand to Emrys’ bicep. Emrys rests his hand over Arthur’s on reflex and catches himself too late to stop. Arthur says something he has never quite said before. “It’s really not about me. All I want is for her to be safe.” Arthur squeezes Emrys’ arm before he rises back up to his feet in several jerky, strained moves. With the addition of the alcohol, his body is finally relaxing enough to feel fatigued. “I really must be off to bed, now. Have to be up bright and early and all.”

“Right,” Emrys says, convincing himself this just isn’t the right time, and that the right time will fall directly into his lap when it finds it proper to do so. He valiantly ignores the clawing in his gut that says he’s being a coward. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“I’m thrilled,” Arthur says. Emrys forces a grin.

“That makes one of us.”

“Goodnight, Emrys,” Arthur says, a smile in his voice despite his stern words.

He’s halfway down to the lower deck when Emrys bids his own goodnight, whispered and unheard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wuh oh. they're in love. 
> 
> so i said that the reveal is in the next chapter, but i mixed up my outline, and it's actually after the next chapter. so not this next one, the one after that, because i'm a liar and a scoundrel. the NEXT chapter is all about gwen, so it's a bit of an interlude.
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	12. interlude: guinevere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An insight to what truly happened when Guinevere was captured by Emrys' crew, how such an absurd plan came about, and - most importantly - the depth of love between Guinevere and Morgana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what it says on the tin, man. this chapter is completely gwen and morgwen centric bc how could i continously mention them throughout this fic and not devote at least One chapter to them?

_ To whom it may concern-- _

_ I will make this brief. My name is Morgana Gorlois. Last year I left the love of my life to flee the Pendragon household. Guinevere Smith is her name, and she was my maid, though I do not know what she does now. I promised her before I left that I would come back for her. Due to my infamy I have found her retrieval quite the impossible task. _

_ You're the best there is. I don't need knowledge of rumors to know the truth in those claims. It works for me. I  _ _ need _ _ the best there is. I need someone who is unafraid of Camelot or the men who rule her. Do you understand what I'm asking yet?  _

_ I need you to get her out of Camelot for me. She knows I'm trying to get to her. It shouldn't be an issue. My main concern is the Pendragons. I don't want the King to follow your trail back to me, you see. Under no circumstances, ever, can you tell  _ _ anyone _ _ about this. _

_ Guinevere is shoulder height on a normal man. She has long and curly brown hair, dark skin, and brown eyes. She has a freckle on her right cheek, and above and below the left side of her mouth. She will answer to Gwen faster than she will to Guinevere. _

_ Enclosed are two hundred gold pieces. I have seven hundred more waiting for you if you feel so inclined to do as I ask. _

_ Deepest regards, _

_ An Ally. _

Emrys folds the letter and slips it into his back trouser pocket. He sits on the edge of his desk, looking at the woman standing in front of her with tear tracks crusted on her face and a scowl upon her lips. Her arms are held still by Percival and Gwaine.

"And we're sure this is her?" He asks. The freckles on her lips turn down.

"She can speak for herself," she snaps, her voice hoarse, and Emrys' eyebrows raise. He smiles at her, already endeared to her attitude.

"Then I encourage her to do so," he says. "What's your name?" The woman looks him up and down. Jerks on the arm held by Gwaine.

"Guinevere," she says. "But most people call me--"

"Gwen?" Emrys asks, leaning back on his hands. Guinevere's brown eyes widen and her eyebrows furrow. She glances between the men in the room. Emrys nods to Percival and Gwaine. "I'll take it from here," he says. Gwaine releases Guinevere, chuckling when she yanks her hand back to her own body, but Percival stays still.

"Captain--" he starts, recalling the way she screamed and thrashed and bruised them, and how horribly she laid into Elyan the moment she saw him.

"I said get out," he answers less kindly. Percival looks down at Guinevere before he lets go of her arm, raising his hands in surrender, and Gwen hugs her arms to her chest. She glares at his back as he makes his leave.

The door shuts, and she directs that glare to Emrys.

"What are you going to do to me?" She asks. Her shoulders are tightened and her chest puffed forward, a desperate effort to seem bigger and more threatening. Emrys sees it for what it really is. A woman locked in a room, alone with a man she doesn't know, terrified.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Gwen. On my word." He unbuckles his pistol holster from his hip, and his sword's sheath, and shows them to her before he sets them both on the desk to leave himself unarmed. The tension in her back slackens by a fraction. He tucks his hands into his pockets. “You can call me Merlin, if you'd like." She watches him with a wary eye.

"Merlin is a nice name."

"Thank you." He crosses his legs at the ankle. "What I'm going to do now is ask you a question, and if your answer is against what I've been told, you'll be released, and myself and my crew will never bother you again. Does that sound agreeable?"

"It does." She nods. It's Emrys' turn to watch her.

"A woman named Morgana Gorlois is looking for you. Do you wish to be found?"

Guinevere swallows thickly upon hearing Morgana's name. Her chin dimples as it trembles.

"Morgana is still looking for me?" She asks, her voice strained and shaking. Emrys nods. The reaction is immediate. She presses one hand to her forehead and another to the bodice of her dress. She lets out a wavering sigh, her cheeks puffing out, and takes a step backward. "Oh, god, she-- I feared she'd forgotten all about me," she says, a beaming smile surfacing as she sobs a wet laugh.

See, Morgana was never meant to take such a long time.

A week in the least.

A month at the most.

And then a month turned into two. Winter turned to summer turned to winter again, with no word. No messages, no letters. Guinevere was alone, and had no idea if Morgana's whispered promise into her lips was one she intended to follow through on. Every day seeded more doubt in her mind.

But she held out hope. And as she presses the heel of her palm to her weeping eye, she sinks into the relief of having made the right choice.

"Would you like to see her?" Emrys asks, his own throat tightening at the sight of her joy.

"Yes," she gasps, "yes, more than anything."

"Okay," Emrys laughs as he nods. He presses his knuckles his lips and clears his throat. "Okay. We'll chart a course. We're meeting her at an island a week-- less than a week, really, from here, then you'll travel together to Morgana's home." Of which the former Emrys was soon to be chased through alongside a bullheaded prince, and the latter he would tell that same prince was devoid even of rum runners. "You can-- you can sleep in my cabin, for the trip. Unless you'd like to sleep with the crew, I've been told you and our Elyan have history."

"With the rest of the crew is fine, surely," Guinevere says. She steps forward and pulls him into a hug, her wet cheek pressed to his chest. "Thank you, thank you. You have no idea what--" she laughs out another sob-- "what  _ good _ you've done for me today, Merlin." Emrys grits his teeth as tears well in his eyes knowing that he's done something  _ good _ for once, that he's  _ helped _ someone, and he rests his chin over her head and returns the hug with a tight squeeze.

"Don't mention it," he says softly. He tries to sniffle as inconspicuously as he can and holds her back at arms length. "Really, don't mention it to anyone. My reputation was hard earned, you know." Guinevere wipes the tears from her eyes. She raises her chin, her smile never dimming, her eyes bright and shining.

"Not a soul," she promises.

In the back of her mind, she grieves over the friends she will never get to say goodbye to.

Among them is Arthur Pendragon.

  
  


Guinevere loves every second of being on Merlin's ship. She loves the crew. She loves the time spent with her brother, who she has not seen in person in some years. She, especially, loves Kilgharrah.

"You're cute," she tells him, petting the little bird perched on her hand with her two fingers..

"You're cute," Kilgharrah answers, squinting his eyes and bobbing his head at the attention. He twists his head backwards to chitter a kissing noise into her hand. Gwen’s lower lip juts out and her eyebrows draw together in affection.

"Don't get him spoiled," Merlin warns, stopping in his quest to find the right size of rope to satisfy Gwaine's repairs on a stay. Or to hang himself with. It depends on how many more times Gwaine asks for it. "He's never getting that much love again."

"Then I'll just have to take him with me," she teases, pursing her lips at the devilish little parrot and miming a silent kiss. Kilgharrah continues his kissing noises. He bobs his head and side steps over her hand. "I could just eat you up." Merlin snorts. He tugs on his braid, woven by Guinevere and plaited with colored strands of ribbon.

"Do it. He won't be missed."

"Be nice," Gwen says, and tucks Kilgharrah to her chest. Merlin grins, shakes his head, and carries on. "Do you want to come with me?" She asks Kilgharrah. Kilgharrah squints his gold eyes.

"Come with.  _ You! _ Cute, cute, cute."

Gwen beams.

She doesn't take Kilgharrah with her, doesn't even ask. Though if she had, Merlin would have stood in front of him as though he were protecting a beloved child and denied her.

  
  


She stands at the bow of the ship. She hasn't moved since the island popped over the horizon as a dark green speck. Every nerve is on edge. She wonders what Morgana is like, now. Freedom can change so much in a person.

She questions if Morgana will still love her, now that they've been apart. Now that Morgana has experienced more of the world. Now that Guinevere is not her only option.

Guinevere composes a game plan in her mind of what she'll do when Morgana rejects her, how she'll explain away her absence from her work, how she'll ask to be brought back to Camelot. She starts taking deep breaths to calm her racing heart as if she has already been turned away.

"Everything alright?" Elyan asks her, coming up on her right side to lean his elbows on the railing. He closes his eyes as the sea air blows over his face.

She was mad at him for his lies at first. Furious, even. But this life has done him well, and she can see it in his posture and the brightness of his eyes and the full bodied, open chested way that he laughs.

How can you blame anyone for doing what makes them happy?

"Fine," she says. She takes a deep breath and waves her hands. "Just… killing the butterflies." Elyan nods. He knows enough about his sister to understand.

"She's spent all this time to find you, you know. I'm sure she would have given up by now if her feelings changed." Gwen presses her lips together. "And besides, if her feelings have changed, you'll never know until you meet with her." Though between them Guinevere is usually the more sensible, everyone has their moments. Guinevere sags with her sigh as she realizes how her anxieties have clouded her thinking.

"How do you always know what to say?" She asks, and leans into his shoulder. Elyan rests his hand on her head.

"Well, I've always been the smart one," he answers. She shoves him, and he shoves her back. He puts his hands on her shoulders and directs her away from the edge of the ship. "Come on. You'll make yourself sick sitting in your nerves like this." 

He drags her off for a glass of wine, because nerves are the biggest call for a drink a pirate can think of. She's too worried of reuniting with her love while drunk to take more than a sip. 

Guinevere feels when the ship begins to slow, and that is when her fingers begin to twitch and pull at the hemming of her dress and her feet begin to tap. She's so excited she can't believe herself. Her veins themselves are jittery. A year in waiting, just for this.

Her goodbyes are quick.

"You," she says, and holds Elyan's face in her hands, "better not be a stranger, do you understand? I want letters. I want to know everything. I mean it."

"Yes mom," Elyan answers, and Gwen pulls him down by the face so she can get a proper hug in. Elyan tucks his chin over her shoulder and squeezes with all his strength. Guinevere does the same, standing on her toes. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you more." Guinevere looks up at him one last time, a deep pride welling in her chest at who her brother has become, before she grasps his hand in both of hers, squeezes, and distances herself completely.

Elyan intends to send her a letter the moment they reach their next destination.

Of course, their next destination is Camelot. And Elyan wasn't about to tell her about  _ prince Arthur of Camelot _ sailing alongside them.

A rowboat meets theirs, smaller even than the one Arthur would soon board. Guinevere and Merlin are the only passengers aside from the two women rowing the boat to shore. 

Gwen squints at the shore. The final memories she has of Morgana, aside from their last meeting where Morgana’s hair was frizzed and she wore nothing but her nightgown, were all of a woman adorned in jewels and silk. There is no doubt she looks nothing like that now, because Gwen is acquainted enough with the world to know that a life spent inside a palance makes you different. Soft. Untried.

There's someone on the crisp white shore. A man.

No. A woman in trousers.

Guinevere stands. The boat rocks, and she almost falls, but she grabs onto the side of the boat for balance. Her heart is beating a hundred miles an hour. Her lungs are frozen in her chest. The silhouette jumps and waves its arms. She starts to make out a long, dark braid. She can see the bag tossed to the ground at Morgana's feet. She can see a wide, open mouthed smile.

And then Morgana is running. Across the beach, past the damp sand, into the water. Her boots splash in the crystal blue water. She's up to her knees, her waist, and she is still advancing.

Guinevere gathers her skirts into her hands, puts one foot on the edge of the boat, and jumps in. As she plunges into the ocean and the water rushes up around her ears, she hears a distant,  _ what the fuck!? _

She swims with everything she has. She doesn't look behind her to see Merlin standing in the boat behind her, peeling off his coat, readying himself in case her dress becomes too heavy and she starts to drown. Her eyes sting from the salt and she coughs when waves smack water into her mouth but she doesn't stop, not for a moment, because Morgana is twenty feet away, fifteen,  _ ten _ , and this is everything Guinevere has ached for. She reaches out, and Morgana's hand finds hers. 

Gwen barely has her chin above the water. She wades, the toes of her boots dusting the sandy sea floor, and she pulls Morgana close into a hug. She presses her face to the junction of Morgana's neck and shoulder and weeps, clinging for dear life, vaguely registering that Morgana is sobbing into her hair.

"I'm so sorry," Morgana says, holding her so tight that Gwen struggles to breathe. She doesn't mind. She's waited a year to be held. "I tried-- I never stopped trying." She pulls away only far enough to meet Guinevere's eyes, petting wet strands of hair from Gwen's face.

"It doesn't matter now," she says, her hand fitting over Morgana's. She leans her head forward to touch their foreheads together. "I found you again. I’m here.”

Morgana laughs as she cries, almost unable to calm her smile for long enough to close that miniscule distance between them and press a kiss to Guinevere's lips.

It's not a very perfect and romantic kiss. It's wet, and slippery, and their lips don't perfectly align, and Gwen is holding onto Morgana's shoulders because she's not quite touching the bottom but Morgana is only partially taller than Gwen and is standing on her toes to keep them both above water.

But Morgana's hands, though unfamiliarly weathered, are warm on Gwen's neck, and Gwen's breath fans over Morgana's chin, and they are  _ together _ . There isn't a single thing they can't do as long as they have each other.

The boat drifts towards them. Inside are two very concerned women and a pirate captain who rolls up his tunic sleeves. The two women congregate at the port side for balance and Merlin reaches over the starboard side to grab hold of Guinevere's hand and pull her into the boat. Next is Morgana, dripping wet only from her chin down, the top of her head bone dry. Gwen isn't so lucky, soaked through and shivering from every inch. Morgana sits behind with her arms around Gwen and her chin tucked over her shoulder. Guinevere holds Morgana's hands close to her chest, rubbing circles over her knuckles with her thumb, ducking her head to kiss her fingers.

The women begin to row the boat again. Merlin sits on the edge of the boat, across from Morgana and Guinevere.

"This is all very lovely," Merlin says, and takes the soaked front of his shirt and wrings it out, "but I believe I'm owed something." Morgana rolls her eyes. Her fingers curl around Gwen's.

"You men and your greed." She nods in the direction they're rowing in. "I left your payment on the shore." Merlin looks away from them to squint at the bag still safely on the sand. 

"Expecting to be paid for a service isn't greed," he answers dully, and scans the beach to ensure no one is creeping up to nick the bag. Gwen frowns at him. She’d grown accustomed to the kind, though tired, attitude Merlin carried. The moment Morgana came upon them that part of him was closed off, hidden, like snatching your fingers away from a boot about to step on your hand. The businesslike and curt man before her is almost unrecognizable. This is Emrys, she supposes, the man feared and respected in equal measure.

She much prefers Merlin.

Merlin and Morgana shake hands over the traded money. Gwen doesn't let him leave without a tight hug.

"You're a good man, Merlin," she says into his ear, and Merlin relaxes by a fraction, comes back into himself a little more, rubs his hand up and down her back in firm, warming strokes. She’s still shivering. He takes a steadying breath when he pulls away.

"Not a soul," he reminds her, and taps her underneath the chin. Guinevere smiles, a smile that really could put the sun to shame. She unclasps her golden necklace and takes Merlin’s hand to place the chain in his palm. She closes his fingers over it.

“This isn’t a gift,” she tells his inquisitive eyebrows, “I want it back someday.” She pats his hand. “If ever you feel…” she wants to say  _ lonely _ , but has a correct feeling that it will turn Merlin away, “that you need a friend, in your travels, there is no need to send a foreword, or give an excuse. Just say you’ve come to return it.”

Merlin clenches his fist around the necklace. His throat is tight and his eyes are stinging with tears that he looks away and clears his throat to banish. Usually quick with a remark, he finds himself at a loss for words. Being genuine is hard, harder to be vulnerable, and worst of all to be genuinely vulnerable.

“I’ll keep you in mind,” he says. Guinevere nods, not quite understanding the depth of Merlin’s shoddy thank you but knowing how he’s tried all the same. She reaches behind for Morgana's hand. Morgana laces their fingers together. They part ways, and Gwen doesn’t see how Merlin rubs his thumb over the chain for the entire boat ride back to his ship.

As they walk down the beach to the hostel Morgana has been staying in, Gwen leans up into her side and rests her head against her shoulder.

"What do you suppose we'll do now?" She asks. Morgana squeezes her hand and turns her head to press a kiss to her temple.

"We’ll have to get dry, first, and find you a change of clothing. Then…” she sighs, and looks out over the waves that crash over each other and send foam onto the shore. Distantly, Merlin is returning to the heart of Camelot so he can be accosted by a prince. “I suppose we’ll go home.”

Guinevere hums. She looks up at the woman beside her, who walks with the same assured stride Gwen remembers but whose braid is just slightly crooked from having to weave it herself and whose tunic is mended in the shoulder with stitches that are too tight and puckering, and smiles hopelessly. 

_ Home _ . She was home the moment she jumped in the water.

“I think I’d like that,” she says instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is the reveal! and then shit is gonna pick up fast as we reach the climax of our story. depending on how it goes i may post on sunday, bc i actually ended up writing a lot this past week for some reason.
> 
> anyways, catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	13. abyss part i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, surely you must know what will happen here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another 4k chapter. you know how it be. this week has been ROUGH on me i'm so sorry to everybody that i haven't responded to ur comments i am working on it and i love talking to y'all i'm just busy lmao

It ends like this. 

Elyan chasing after Arthur with a crumpled letter gripped tight in his hand. Arthur with his borrowed sword drawn and fury in every line of his body. Emrys in a deep discussion with Isolde and completely unaware of what's coming up behind him. Until Arthur makes his presence known. 

" _Emrys_!" 

Emrys turns, catches the glint of Arthur's sword in the corner of his eye, takes a stumbling step backward, and draws his own sword barely in time to block the blow from coming down directly over his shoulder.

But that’s how it ends, not how it starts.

It starts with the letter Elyan is holding.

Elyan does end up following through on his self made promise to ask Guinevere if she would allow Arthur to find her. He knows they’re friends, at least, and though she never mentioned him by name he knows she wished for her friends to know what became of her. That means something, it must.

So he writes. He wants to have it finished before they leave Nemeth so that he can arrange for it to be sent. He carefully tears a page of his notebook, usually filled with sketches for inventions and improvements on already made machines, and composes a letter.

Unfortunately, Arthur sleeps above him.

“What has you so focused?” He asks from the hammock that hangs over Elyan’s head. Elyan has to duck as Arthur swings out of it. He quickly folds up the piece of parchment.

“Nothing,” he says, and watches as Arthur pauses in yanking on his boots.

“Sounds like something,” he says, more teasing than suspicious. He doesn’t think Elyan would hide anything from him that was important. He doesn't think any of these people, his friends, would do such a thing. “What, don’t tell me you’ve news of a child.” Elyan, who never quite understood the appeal of women, rolls his eyes.

“That’ll be the day,” he says. He pulls his hand back as Arthur makes a grab for it. “Arthur, it’s personal.” Arthur leans away from him, his eyebrow quirked. His incorrect notion that Elyan keeps him in the know of all important things mixed with his spoiled upbringing of being granted everything he wished for makes him take it as a challenge - surely it’s only embarrassing, something he wouldn’t want getting out to the crew. Poetry to a lover, perhaps, or a journal entry. Nothing harmful. 

“Personal, huh?”

“Yes. Personal.”

“I suppose I should mind my business, then.”

“You should.”

“Alright.”

Arthur raises his hands in surrender. He shifts his feet so he can lunge at Elyan the moment he’s off guard. Which happens no more than ten seconds later, when Elyan slackens the tension in his shoulders and lets the letter come to rest in his lap.

“Thank you.”

Arthur jumps at him.

Elyan reacts quickly, but he’s sitting on a hammock, and his sudden lean backward sends him into a backflip onto the ground. Arthur crashes on top of him. They’re a mess of knees and elbows. Elyan pushes back away from Arthur on his heels, Arthur holds his weight over Elyan to keep him still.

“Arthur! I mean it! Fuck off!” 

“You fuck off!” Arthur answers in a laugh. His arms are longer than Elyan’s, and with a hard reach he snatches the letter out of his hand. He scrambles away before Elyan can take it back. He holds one hand out behind him so he doesn’t run straight into a wall as he darts backwards from Elyan and unfolds it with his other. Over twenty years of living with Morgana has made him an expert in childish games of keep-away. He clears his throat before he begins to read.

“ _To my dearest sister,”_ he announces. He raises the letter above his head out of Elyan's reach and stops walking, instead keeping Elyan at bay with a hand on his chest.

"Arthur, I'm serious," he says, almost in tears now. 

"Seriously dramatic," Arthur quips. “ _I know I haven’t kept my promise to write--_ shame on you-- _but I have a true reason. I cannot lie to you about this reason, but avoiding speaking of it is also impossible, thus I have elected not to speak to you at all. Arthur Pendragon is…_ ” Arthur pauses here, not the letter, “ _looking for you._ ” Arthur slows. His eyebrows draw together.

Arthur can be dense. He can be foolish.

Arthur is not an idiot.

" _I know you swore us to secrecy. We've said nothing of your location and he does not suspect our hand yet. The captain claims to have a plan, but my patience for this charade grows thin and I fear our luck running out soon._ " Arthur has started to read at a rapid pace. His breath is light. His stomach is queasy. His shoulders prickle as if the weight of the world is dripping onto them in the form of hot wax. " _I wish to ask of you a great favor: that you should allow us to find you. Arthur is a good man and my friend,_ " his throat grows tight and he has to swallow to continue to speak, " _and he deserves to know the truth. He will take it better if the explanation comes from you. Please reply with haste, for I fear the consequences if he discovers this truth under the improper circumstances. With…_ " And that is where the letter ends, because Elyan was interrupted, though it would have finished _with all the love in my heart, Elyan Tomson_.

They stand in silence. Arthur has taken to fisting the front of Elyan's tunic. He reads the letter a second time.

"Arthur," Elyan tries, and balks when Arthur looks up at him. He thinks he will explain everything, every little detail, but his heart thuds in his mouth when Arthur's crazed eyes meet his and he only manages, "Don't hate me. Please."

"I don't hate you, Elyan," Arthur says, far too gently for the hurricane of rage inside him. He lets go of Elyan's tunic. Straightens the collar. He folds the letter neatly with hands that shake with restraint. He hands the letter to Elyan, and he steps backward.

And then he takes his sword in hand, and he starts walking. A fast, jagged walk that looks more like he wishes to run but won't allow himself to.

Elyan's stomach drops down between his knees, through the floorboards, and into the salty water below. His hands clench into fists and crumple the letter. He follows.

Which is how they find themselves on the main deck, with Arthur taking his anger out on the man responsible.

Emrys doesn't need to ask to know. The rage in Arthur’s every move tells him.

And, of course, Arthur also tells him.

"You _lied_ to me! It was you--" a hard strike that dents both their swords-- "the whole--" another-- " _time!_ " And yet another.

Emrys is being backed across the deck. He looks behind himself. He'll soon be cornered against the rail. The crew has jumped into action, ready to take Arthur down and defend their captain, but Emrys stops them with a raised hand and shaken head.

"Listen to me-- Arthur, listen to me-- you don't understand--" His hand buzzes with the force of each blow laid upon him. Arthur takes two rapid steps. Emrys raises his sword to defend himself. Arthur grabs him by the forearm and pushes the sword away, walks him backward until his back is pressed up against the railing. There's no escape here, nowhere to go, nothing but the ocean below. Arthur presses the sharp blade of his sword to Emrys' throat. It presses to his adam's apple when he swallows.

Emrys looks at him like he's just been outed as a pirate in a crowded market.

Which is to say, like a cornered wild animal.

"You're _damn_ right I don't understand! What the hell kind of sick," his voice breaks here, "mind game are you playing?" Isolde strides forward with her sword drawn and her face pale.

"Captain--"

"Shut up," Emrys says, barely glancing in her direction. "Everything is fine." He drops his sword and raises his other hand, looks imploringly into Arthur's eyes, hoping against hope that if he puts off enough wide eyed defenselessness then he will calm and no one will be hurt - most of all the one person on this ship with a blade on his skin. Arthur doesn't react to the face he puts on. He's almost disgusted by it. His mind is whirling with insults and cruel names that men only learn from the mouths of pirates. "I can explain," he says, quietly enough that only Arthur can hear. "Let me."

"How am I supposed to trust anything you say?" Arthur snarls through his teeth, shoving the blade harder against Emrys' neck until his head tips back.

"You don't have to," he says. His cover is blown anyways, so he may as well bring everyone else down with him. "Trust Morgana Gorlois." Arthur's lips twitch.

"No one has heard from Morgana in over a year, you good for nothing liar," he hisses.

"Pirates _are_ no ones," Emrys answers. "It wasn't a kidnapping, Arthur," he says, his voice strained from the force it's taking to hold back an unfortunate and sudden onslaught of tears. This wasn't meant to happen this way. He was meant to have more control. He furrows his brows and takes a deep breath. "She wanted to leave with us. She's safe, she always has been. Just…" he closes his one free hand over Arthur's, where he holds the hilt of his sword. "Just let me explain." Arthur breathes heavy through his nose.

"Guinevere is safe?"

"And happy," he promises.

"Swear on every dime you own, since that's all that matters to you." That stings him. He presses his lips together. Flares his nostrils. Nods.

"I swear."

Arthur shoves him back against the railing when he lets him go.

“You’re going to tell me everything,” he says.

“I don’t know everything.”

“Then you’ll tell me everything you _do_ know.”

“Okay.” He grips the railing. “You have my word.” Arthur’s lip curls, and he looks Emrys up and down. Emrys’ chest sinks. His word doesn’t mean anything to Arthur, not anymore.

“I’ll be waiting in your cabin, _Captain_ ,” he says, as if the mere title is fetid on his tongue. He turns on his heel and marches in the direction of Emrys’ cabin. He slams his shoulder against Lancelot’s as he does. It’s unnecessary, and quite rude, but Arthur doesn’t regret it and Lancelot doesn’t blame him. He could have told him. Any of them could have.

The cabin door rattles on its hinges when it shuts. Emrys sags. He pushes a hand through his hair.

“See?” He says with a faint and breathless smile, looking like a ghost tipped its hat and walked right through him. “Everything is fine.” He shoves off from the railing and strides across the main deck. Elyan stops him, his eyes big and apologetic and a canyon between his eyebrows.

“Emrys, I am so sorry, this is all my fault--”

Emrys raises his hand, and Elyan quiets.

“It’s-- you--” He takes a breath. “You did the right thing,” he says. “You did what I should’ve.” He puts his hand on Elyan's shoulder and squeezes. 

Arthur is sat at his desk when Emrys joins him, sunken in the chair like he owns the place with his leg up on the arm. He has Emrys’ bottle of gin in his hand, uncorked, and takes a greedy swallow the moment their eyes make a head on collision. Emrys stands at the door, still gripping the handle though the door is shut, his back straight and his lips pressed together. Kilgharrah cowers at the top of the armoire, not pleased with the energy of the room. Arthur rests the bottle on his thigh. He waves his hand.

“Well? Get on with it.”

Emrys sighs, his entire body slumping with it, and looks away. He forgot about this. The lung clenching ache. The nausea. How much it hurt to give a damn. He hadn't realized how soft his heart had grown until Arthur stomped on it.

He'd set himself up for this, though. It isn't Arthur's fault, it isn't Elyan's, and it isn't fate's either. It is his own.

“I got a letter,” he says quietly, walking forward, “from Morgana Gorlois, about a month before Guinevere, uh, disappeared. We discussed the details of the deal in later correspondences but the-the gist was… that we would retrieve Gwen, and take her to Morgana, and then together they would travel to Morgana’s permanent residence.” He presses his finger on the map to the island where Morgana and Guinevere would now be, if their travels were successful. Arthur’s eyes narrow.

“I thought you said that island was barren.”

“I thought we’d established I was lying," he says, with a little smile that is not returned. He rubs a nervous cramp out of his shoulder. "I still have them-- the letters. They're in the desk. Top right drawer."

Arthur leans forward and opens the drawer. He clenches his fist when he sees the thread. His hand has healed since, only a long pink scar to remember it by. The memory of Emrys' touch makes his hand tingle. He allows himself a fit of pettiness, and flicks the spools of thread to the back of the drawer just so he doesn't have to see them anymore.

And there, right as Emrys promised, _to whom it may concern_. Arthur recognizes Morgana's handwriting.

He opens the letter anyways.

It's already known what is written inside.

He reads it, because he lacks the same knowledge. He traces his thumb over the sharp points of the _M_ in _Morgana_. He never speaks of it, because he is not the type to discuss such things, but he misses her. And he blames himself for her leaving Camelot, too, because he was the one who ran into her bedroom late at night, half panicked, going on about a private conversation he overheard between the King and the family physician about Morgana's true lineage and an affair. She'd jumped out of her bed with her hair ratty and her nightdress rumpled. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes with one hand and started shoving clothing into bags. 

Morgana was insistent that it was too dangerous for her to stay. What if someone discovered the truth? What if his father, _their_ father, decided the chance of a coup was too great and had her taken care of? Arthur would say he asked her calmly to stay, but the truth was he begged her, selfish in his fear of losing the only person in his life who did not treat him like an object. He did not think his father was a killer, then. He thought she was crazy. Paranoid and nothing more. Now he bites his lip and thanks the lord above that Morgana had more sense than he did.

Arthur was to claim Morgana had been acting strangely and going on about seeing the world. Morgana was to disappear, and never return.

She'd insisted on bringing Guinevere to her bedroom one last time. Arthur was barred from the room. When Gwen returned, her eyes were red and swollen and her neck was adorned with gold. He thought nothing of it, because he was self centered and blind to most things. He wonders that if he hadn't been, he could've seen this betrayal coming.

"This doesn't mean anything," he says, and tosses the letter down. "Just because Morgana wished to see her-- it doesn't-- Guinevere might not have felt the same."

"I thought the same thing, so I asked her. She agreed to come with us." He gestures to the desk again. "She left-- she left a necklace to me. In the middle drawer." Arthur pulls open the middle drawer. Inside is a mess of jewelry: necklaces, bracelets, and earrings, likely all stolen, but he can still pick out Gwen's golden necklace at a glance. He takes it from the drawer and drapes it on the desk surface.

Arthur scrubs his face with his hand and rests his chin in his palm with his fingers tapping against his cheekbones. It's a lot to understand. Most of all, it's hard to grasp that he doesn't truly mind that Guinevere doesn't love him. He betrayed his father for _her_ , he went on a perilous quest for _her_. He shed blood, both his own and that of others. He should be destroyed that she loves another.

But it isn't rejection that makes his heart ache.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asks quietly. His eyes are empty, his shoulders slumped no matter how desperately he tries to appear arrogantly unconcerned.

"You would've killed me, at first," Emrys supplies helpfully.

"And then?" Arthur asks, because there is an _and then_ , an _and then when i no longer hated you,_ there's an _and then when you were my friend_ , there are _and thens_ to last a lifetime.

"And then," Emrys says, his chest shivering, "and then I--" his voice cracks, and he looks away, frustratedly wiping the heel of his palm over his eyes to rid himself of those pesky tears, "I didn't want…" and a little selfish nudge in his brain urges him to say _to lose you_ , but he instead settles for, "to hurt you."

"I'm not hurt," he says, looking very much like a person who has been hurt rather terribly. "It's only that I thought I could trust you, and I am _furious_ that I was wrong." Emrys takes a sharp breath through his nose, his mouth pressed into a deep frown.

"I never lied about anything else, I--"

"You're right, just that one, huge lie that infected _every other thing_ you've told me! How am I supposed to-- I mean, for God's sake, Emrys! If that is your real name!" It's meant as a joke, but Emrys' face pinches at the words. He scratches behind his ear.

He mutters something that sounds like, " _Emsn't m' realnm._ " Arthur watches him evenly.

"I beg your pardon?" He asks. Emrys sniffs, shifts his weight, and repeats himself more clearly.

"Emrys, uh, it's-- it isn't my real name," he says as though it's squeezed out of him. Arthur doesn't move. Emrys begins to fidget with a thread on his tunic. "Mer-- My real name is Merlin. Wylt. Merlin Wylt. But that's not technically-- it's not a lie, because--"

He doesn't get to finish, because that's about when Arthur bursts into laughter.

It isn't very funny. But it's the last load of weight that breaks the fraying strands of Arthur's composure towards this entire debacle, and once the time for tears and screaming has been surpassed the only thing left to do is laugh.

"You couldn't tell the truth if your life depended on it!" He says through his hand, his head tipped forward and his shoulders shaking. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Alphabetically?" Emrys answers, uncertain if he dislikes Arthur's anger or humor more.

"Jesus _Christ,_ " he says, and looks at Emrys with his eyes squinted from an awful, beaming smile, "I've never hated anyone this much in my entire life."

That's not true. It's important to say it isn't true, because Emrys' heart in this moment frankly shatters so hard and so quickly that he fears he's having a heart attack, and it's a cruel thing to do to someone you don't hate, not even a little, not at all.

Arthur doesn't hate Emrys. But when you have strong feelings for someone, and those feelings backfire into your face, the immediate response is never apathy. Those strong feelings remain, and they ache. It's easier to say that he hates Emrys with everything he has than to explain the complicated mess of rage and upset and love that makes him proud of the hurt splashed plain across Emrys' face at the same time he wishes for that expression to never pass on his features again.

Arthur takes one last drink from the bottle before he rises. He slams the bottle down on the desk and picks up Guinevere's necklace in the same move.

"Take me home," he says, and makes for the door.

"You don't wish to see her?" Emrys asks. He watches him with a wary eye. He expected to have to argue Arthur down from going straight to where Morgana and Guinevere now live. Arthur sighs through his nose and rests his hand on the doorknob. His face is so cold when he turns on Emrys that a shiver tenses his shoulders.

"What business do I have?" He asks. "She doesn't wish to see me." He looks down in his hand and realizes that same rule adheres to her belongings, that the necklace was not left to him, and tosses it to Emrys instead. Emrys catches the chain in one hand and thoughtlessly pockets it.

Arthur doesn't slam the door when he leaves. He closes it quietly, almost politely. Emrys stands in the middle of the room, alone with a parrot that's been silent out of fear of Arthur's raised voice.

Now Kilgharrah takes off from the top of Emrys' armoire to his shoulder. Emrys flinches, but doesn't bat him away yet. He bobs his head and chitters against Emrys' cheek in an attempt to comfort him.

"Hey, birdie," Kilgharrah says. "Birdie, hey birdie."

If there were ever a good time for Kilgharrah to imitate his previous owner, who would calm his son in times of frustration and stress with a gentle _hey, birdie_ , it would not be now. No matter how well meant his intentions may be.

"Oh, will you _piss off!_ " Emrys shouts, shrugging his shoulder and swatting his hands about at the same time. Kilgharrah flies off to a hidden corner of the room where he cannot be yelled at any further. Emrys sniffles. He tugs his hair to keep himself from fully weeping, and fails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Abyss represents the greatest challenge in the journey. In the Abyss the hero faces his greatest fear, and must face it alone._
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	14. abyss part ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least it can't get any worse. Or... maybe it can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ack sorry for the update gaps i've had life stuff. can't guarantee it's gonna even out any time soon, but i'm trying! in the mean time, i hope you enjoy.

If someone ever asked you what it would take to quiet an entire crew of pirates, tell them that all it takes is a lover's quarrel.

After all, lover's quarrels are uncomfortable for  _ anyone _ to be exposed to. Let alone when those people are your friends, and those people aren't actually lovers.

Sides are taken in theory. 

Gwaine is the first to do so, to proclaim that Emrys had no choice but to lie because Arthur threatened him, and at the point it was acceptable to tell the truth, the lie too big to come clean about. Tristan is quick to agree, if only to express his dissent on the royal bloodline in general. Lancelot takes Emrys' side as well, but he knows he's biased by friendship and that Emrys was just as wrong to lie as Arthur was to attack him for it.

The counter argument comes from Elyan, who defends that Arthur was only doing what he thought was right under the knowledge he had, and their actions were not only a betrayal of friendship but also cast every other truth he was given by the pirates into doubt. Isolde raises her glass and gives a smug nod to her husband. Percival agrees, because in the back of his mind he knows that Arthur could have killed Emrys in that moment but did not, and that is the mark of a good man.

This is all well and good, for friends to stand by their friends and defend their cases. But the moment Arthur or Emrys walk into the room, regardless of whose side they are on, everyone scatters like rats under torchlight.

Arthur and Emrys aren't any better.

Arthur will watch Emrys from a distance with an ocean splashing on the inside of his rib cage, unable to move or breathe or stop digging his nails into his palms. He will be overcome with an urge to come up next to Emrys as he once did and annoy him until he manages to get one of those wheezing, exasperated laughs. And he will smile for a fleeting moment before his eyebrows draw together and he is reminded why he cannot do such a thing - that Emrys is a liar, and a con artist, and he played Arthur for a fool.

Emrys will sit alone in his chambers at night, unable to sleep and unable to focus long enough to do anything but whistle back and forth to Kilgharrah, wishing more than anything to venture to the forecastle and pretend to read until Arthur joins him. And for a moment he will consider it, and then he will remember that he tried, and Arthur did not accept his apologies, and he is not going to humiliate himself by trying to turn ash back into wood.

They are on their way back to Camelot. The promise of their voyage coming to an end is all that keeps them sane.

If they knew they were soon to be intercepted they may have begun to riot.

It will take three days for the interception to occur. That’s almost two weeks sooner than it would've taken if they went in the opposite direction: away from Camelot and towards Guinevere.

In fact, the crew of the Camelot ship are very confused when they discover the ship they’re looking for, unmistakable with her dragon bowsprit and blue-gold accenting, her jolly roger flying high and proud, sailing directly for the heart of the place they are most unwelcome. 

It’s late at night, and the girl at the helm, Kara, is inattentive and dozing off. If Emrys or Arthur dared to step foot on the main deck past when the rest of the crew retreated to bed as they once did, they would have seen it.

But they don’t. And before anyone on board has time to prepare, the much bigger Camelot ship is crashing directly into them.

Kara jerks awake and yanks the wheel to the side, but it is too late. The hull of the Camelot ship has made contact. The wood of Emrys’ ship lets out sickening cracks like broken bones. For more of the crewmen on board than not, it’s the last thing they ever hear as the lower decks fill with water and trap them in a cold and heavy grave.

Emrys runs out of his cabin, followed by Kilgharrah, yanking on his boot with one hand and holding his pistol holster in the other. His tunic is unlaced and hangs from one shoulder, his hair is rumpled on one side of his head, and his heart is beating a mile a minute in his chest. It strains in earnest against his sluggish brain and body. It leaves him light headed and confused. He doesn’t quite remember getting out of bed, only jumping to action.

The crewmen still alive pour out of the lower decks, some soaking wet, some limping or holding their arms to their chests, some as dry and unharmed as they were when they retired in the evening. Arthur is one of those who stumble to the main deck with one side of his face dyed red from a head wound that isn’t remotely as bad as it looks.

They all look up at their doom, and the Pendragon seal printed clearly on her sails.

Emrys would tell them to ready for a fight, but he is too busy fumbling with loading this pistol and the gunpowder on his tongue makes it such a bother to speak. It doesn't matter anyways. That very fight is brought to them before he could have, or would have, or should have, warned anyone. 

Ropes are flung from the Camelot ship, and men quickly follow them down. The crewmen from Camelot are prepared, and uninjured, and unconcerned for the lives of their loved ones because their loved ones are currently on land tucked in their beds and not being sucked out into an ocean current.  They have also been instructed that their biggest concern is the prince. This has never been a concern before, quite the opposite, and no one keeps an eye on Arthur in fear that someone may drag him away.

The prince in question isn't in his best form, because the blow to the head has left him with a headache and he has to keep blinking blood from his eyes and alongside his other detriments he is completely unarmed. He grapples a navy man to the ground. He grabs them by the front of their tunic and hits them as hard as he can muster across the face. They slump in his grip. He straightens, feeling very accomplished, and then his head is yanked backward.

In his distraction, he has been hauled backwards by the hair. He hollers. Digs his heels into the ground. Claws at the body behind him. Another pair of hands joins the first to trap his arms, and then another. Adrenaline mixes with the claustrophobia of being held down and he flies past the speed of sound into a panic, writhing and kicking and struggling to wrench his arms to freedom. The navy men think it's rather undignified for a prince to kick up such a fuss. The prince would heed their concerns, if he were not so busy trying to keep from hyperventilating.

Someone from the pirate crew calls out, " _ Arthur! _ "

Someone from the Camelot ship shouts over them, " _ Get the prince! _ "

Arthur screams above them all to fuck off.

It's too late to even try to save the ship, but the human condition insists they do so anyways. They shoot their guns, hack away with their swords, and give it their all, but one by one they are beaten down and overcome. The lucky ones are struck down where they stand. Some are carried across the deck and thrown overboard to their deaths. Some are left on board to sink with the ship. There are very, very few who will be rescued.

A handful of desperate cries for their captain are overheard, and the jump to action from Emrys is seen, and then Emrys is being grabbed at and wrangled and dragged, kicking and biting all the way. Kilgharrah, who feels the panic of the crew most strongly, frets and screams and tries to follow but is barred from joining the crew-made-prisoners. He is only able to follow the Prince without being batted away and shouted at, in part because out of everyone who threatens violence and death if any harm comes to that bird, and this is mostly from Emrys, Arthur is the only one taken seriously.

Lancelot drops his sword and raises his hands in surrender. He swore many years ago that he would follow his friend into Hell, and assumes God has chosen now to call him on his bluff.

When they find him taken without mortal force, a handful of pirates that include Gwaine, Tristan, and Isolde follow suit.

Elyan hides. Not because he is a coward, but because he has dragged an unconscious navy man to a hidden corner of the deck and is busy stripping him of his jacket and trousers to wear them himself. He takes Percival hostage with their elbows linked together and a conspiratorial wink.

The crew are thrown into the brig, where the floor is covered in already blood crusted straw and the air is thick and humid. Elyan man handles Percival into his cell, muttering  _ sorry, sorry, appearances you know, _ as he shoves him in.

Meanwhile, Arthur is corralled into a cabin of his own, where a hot bath, a fresh outfit, and Leon wait for him. He insists that Kilgharrah be let in with him, and as they do with all bizarre requests from royalty the navy men humor him. 

"What the hell is going on?" Arthur demands. There are ruddy drips down the front of his shirt. The blood on his face has turned thick and sticky, and it cracks and wrinkles with his anger. Leon, standing at attention in the center of the room with his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders straight, averts his eyes.

"My lord--"

"Don't start," Arthur orders, and Leon startles. This man - eyes half crazed, fist clenched, his tunic dirty, his boots scuffed and worn in, his shoulders pulled back - holds almost no relation to the grass-fed boy that left Camelot mere months before. He looks like a member of the crew that was just captured and slain. Like a tried and true pirate.

Of all the explanations that could ever be given for why Emrys is the way he is, it is best said that this change for Arthur took half of a year, and Emrys devoted himself to piracy almost a decade before this quest.

"Your father has sent us to rescue you, sire," he says, still adorned in formality.

"I was in no need of rescuing!" He answers. "Have you any idea how many people you've just needlessly killed!?"

"Pirates," Leon corrects. Arthur bristles.

"Pirates," he glowers, "are people."

Leon looks down at the floor, covered in a persian rug, and does not look up from it for a very long time. He is torn between his humanity and his duty.

"We will return to Camelot within the week," he decides quietly. He strides across the room, only pausing when he is shoulder to shoulder with Arthur. He stares ahead. "I was given the order to confine you to your quarters until we reach Camelot, though… if you promise not to get up to anything nefarious, I will disobey that order." He clears his throat. Glances. "And if you bathe."

Arthur sniffs his collar as the door shuts. He almost refuses to bathe out of spite, but he is not his sister, and he knows he is in desperate need of one. So he glares at thin air as he scrubs himself clean. He yanks his tunic over his head, crisp and white, then his pair of pressed trousers. He keeps his own boots. 

Kilgharrah hides himself away and preens his feathers obsessively to the point of yanking them out and throwing them to the floor. He says  _ hey birdie hey birdie birdie birdie hey _ to himself until Arthur becomes too unsettled by his muttering and asks him to stop. He waits a handful of minutes before he starts up again.

There is a rapier left on the bed for Arthur, but when he pulls it from its sheath it is blunted and useless. All for show. It's a bad image for Arthur not to be trusted with his own weapon, but Leon is also too smart to  _ actually _ give him one. Clever, if frustrating. 

There is a knock on his door.

“Prince Arthur?”

Arthur scoffs, lets his weight tip backward until he falls onto the bed, and tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Come in,” he says. The door opens, and Arthur doesn’t bother to look. The door shuts. "Leave it on the table," he says, expecting someone with a meal or anything else he won't bother to touch in a prediction of his needs.

"Was I meant to have something?" Elyan says, and Arthur's attention and body snaps forward. He scrambles from the bed, and Elyan's arms spread moments before Arthur crashes into him.

"Elyan!" He says redundantly. He squeezes him around the middle before he distances himself with a clap on Elyan's shoulder. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you."

"Likewise," Elyan says, punching Arthur in the chest.

"Are you-- Is it only you?" He asks. He never did get to see how the rest of the crew fared, after all.

"There are a few," Elyan reassures. Arthur sighs in relief. "But not many. They k--" his throat tightens, and he swallows around the burning lump in his throat, "they killed almost everyone, Arthur."

"Emrys?" Arthur asks, because his heart has gotten the best of him and he truly does not wish death upon the man, no matter how he swears it.

"Alive," Elyan promises. "Lancelot, Gwaine, Percival, Tristan and Isolde, they're in the brig. There's a few more, but I didn't see their faces. They're all that I know is left."

Arthur's stomach swoops from under him. He almost cannot comprehend the amount of death that just occurred. Almost a hundred men and women, slain in a crusade for the royal image, and their killers refused even to admit they were people.

If Arthur hadn't already been firmly drawn to the side of the pirates, this would've done it.

"If they're in the brig, they don't have long," Arthur says. "They're waiting for their death sentence from my father." He rests one hand on his hip and chews the thumbnail of his other. He means to say that if their friends are truly in such dire straits then they have to do something about it, but it comes out sounding like, "Quite dreadful, that."

"You're telling me," Elyan says. At the newfound quiet he hears Kilgharrahs muttering, and motions to the hidden sound with a confused look to Arthur. Arthur waves his concern away. Elyan watches the source of the noise for a moment more before he wanders to the table. There's a bowl of fruit on display as a centerpiece. Elyan tears off a cluster of grapes. He doesn't have the stomach to eat them, and takes to peeling off the skins instead. "Any ideas?"

Arthur pushes his lower lip between his teeth with his thumb. The Prince has never been lacking in self surety, but where had diving in head first ever gotten him? Devoting himself to a madman, two separate times. Chasing a love that didn't exist. The first real heartbreak of his life. He has had his baptism by fire ten times over, and though now he has come to terms with the reality of his naivete it carries with it insecurity. He isn't sure he knows _anything._

He sighs. Sags. Sits back on the edge of the bed.

"Not a clue."

Elyan comes to sit next to him. The hem of his sleeve is dotted with blood.

"We'll think of something," he assures. "We'll save them."

Arthur looks to him, something teary and tight in his chest. Elyan trusts him. Here, when his crew mates are held in a filthy jail cell, and his belongings lost to sea, all by the hands of the same men who have surrounded Arthur in finery and the scent of bath oils, Elyan has no doubt of his loyalty. And Arthur knows, then, the unconditional love that comes with family, and that he is finally on the receiving end of it.

"In the meantime, I need you to get something for me," he says, and reaches for his blunted rapier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk about a pickle, huh? don't worry, they'll get out of it. next chapter has arthur and merlin finally reaching their final forms of being bamf!husbands. i also might be upping the final chapter count depending on how the end comes out, bc it's looking to be longer than i intended (like this whole fucking fic)
> 
> anyways, catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	15. a man called emrys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our hero sets out to save his damsel in distress. For real, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't have anything to say just that i hope u enjoy bc this was a pain

Arthur doesn't have a plan. He has an inkling of an idea that may, under the proper circumstances, become a vague blueprint of what to do, but he doesn't have a plan.

What he does have is an image to uphold.

"I must apologize for my behavior," he tells Leon, his eyes purposely averted and his fingers restless. "I'd still been in shock from my head injury, and I wasn't thinking properly."

"Think nothing of it, my lord," Leon says with a level of skepticism that can happen when someone who has hit you square in the face in sound mind blames a pattern of behavior on something as simple as a blow to the head.

"I'd like to thank you for taking me back home," he says evenly, "and away from those pirates."

"Anything for you, my lord, I am your humble servant," he says warily.

"Shall we eat?" There is cheer in his voice that hides his frustration at Leon's suspicion, but not well.

"We shall."

The moment he properly joins the crew Arthur gets an earful of complaints, all relating to the pirates who are causing an awful lot of problems despite being locked in a little room that they are not allowed out of. That's because the complaints they voice, that they will take too many rations or they're too loud or they smell, aren't _really_ the issue. The real issue is that they are there at all, existing, breathing, when the crew doesn’t want them to be.

"I tell you, we shouldn't even bother to get them to Camelot," a navy man named Valiant says. An oxymoron of a name, Valiant is and always has been an utter bastard. No one cares for him, least of all Leon, but he has the King's favor for his ruthless cruelty towards pirates, and has been designated the Quartermaster for the particular voyage. 

Arthur leans back in his seat and adjusts the dull, pointless rapier on his hip. He says nothing. He listens, he watches, _observes,_ something he never did before. Arthur Pendragon tears a chunk of bread from the loaf at the center of the table and lets his enemies declare themselves.

"They'll just be sentenced to death anyways, and in the meantime they’re stinking up my ship--”

“My ship--” Leon interrupts--

“And eating our rations. I say we chain cannonballs to their feet and throw them overboard, save ourselves the trouble. The King wouldn't ask any questions." Valiant spreads his hands and raises a brow at Leon and Arthur. Arthur bites his tongue.

He wonders what Guinevere would say - knowing that Emrys granted Gwen her freedom, brought her to her true lover, and risked his own neck to do so - if she heard something so chilling. 

He doesn’t know what her exact words would be. But he knows that she would say _something_. He knows that she would come to his defense, because Gwen is a good and true hearted person and she wouldn’t stand to see these people come to such a violent end.

“We’re military men, Valiant, not anarchists.” Leon takes a sip of watered down beer. They have to do that, water it down, because the King will not give them any more than a minimum of their share and it is rarely enough. Emrys’ ship never had such a problem. The budget for rations was agreed upon and shared in equal measure. “I’m sure the King would like to meet the men who, er, took his son.”

Arthur's stomach drops. A charge of piracy is bad enough, a certain death sentence. But kidnapping? Treason? He dreads to think of what the King will do (which certainly involves public and humiliating brands of torture) to set an example, not just to the people of Camelot but to his son. And Arthur will be completely unable to stop him, undoubtedly under lock and key the moment he returns, because though the King claims to be searching for Arthur's kidnapper he isn't that stupid. He knows Arthur is the real one at fault.

Emrys will die on a pillory, or be quartered, or be hung with the remaining crew of his ship in the town square. And he will do so thinking that Arthur did nothing to help any of them.

He has to save them, here, now, on this very ship, before they reach port in Camelot. Easy by all accounts. The only hard part will be all of it.

Thinking fast, Arthur forces down a bite of bread and chuckles around it.

Leon raises a brow at him.

"Is there something you'd wish to say, your highness?" Leon asks. Arthur waves his hand.

"No, not at all." He contemplatively chews a second piece of bread. "Only that, I suppose you don't know who you've captured." Leon watches him for a long, measured moment. He is being baited, and he decides just this once to take a bite.

"Who would that be?" He asks.

"Captain Emrys," he says. Leon grips his cup a little more tightly. Of course, he knew of Captain Emrys by name, though as most do he found the tellings of him to be over exaggerated tall tales shared by bored sailors. The majority of them are. But there are truths inside stories, even the exaggerations and the misquotes. "See, I joined that crew of pirates willingly, at first. I hired them to help me find someone important to me. As it turns out, Emrys was the one who orchestrated their disappearance from the beginning.” The best lie is the one that is closest to the truth.

"Figures," Valiant says. "Filthy rats, all of them." 

"Precisely. Can’t trust a damn one," Arthur says, cringing inwardly. "You've put a handful of shifty, very clever con men in an enclosed space, and given them a deadline where their own lives are at stake.” He forces a snort. Then he clears his throat and takes a sip of his own beer. He tells himself that if he were king, his men would have better rations. "But I'm sure it's fine. Certainly they can't have thought of anything already."

That’s a bit of a killing blow, and he knows it lands when Leon looks away thoughtfully.

"Thank you for sharing this with me, my lord," Leon says, eyes and mind distant.

"Line them up and shoot them down," Valiant suggests. "A dead pirate is a harmless pirate."

Arthur raises his hands innocently. He says, “That’s a decision for the Commodore to make.”

"I don't wish to be cruel," Leon admits. "But if what you say is true, then he's dangerous." And the overzealous act of vengeance in destroying their ship was, possibly, a grave mistake. He's only human.

“Oh, come on, you’re not actually planning on executing them,” Arthur says through an incredulous laugh. Leon does not answer. Arthur looks down, then back up, watching for a reaction of any kind. His tone drops into seriousness. “Are you?” Leon taps his fingers on the table. It is a moment before he responds.

"Noon, tomorrow," he says. "We'll get to them a final meal. Valiant, you’ll spread the word, won’t you?”

Valiant is far too happy to obey the order. It disgusts Arthur, some, to see him so proud to see the violence on the pirates. It disgusts him all the more that he can see the very same pride in Valiant’s eyes that used to sit in his own when a pirate was harmed by his hand. 

"You'll do what you must," Arthur says. He gathers a handful of bread and cheese onto a cloth. He stands. "Excuse me, but I think I'd like to finish my meal in my quarters."

"Then I bid you farewell, my lord."

“And you as well,” he answers, slipping into the stiff back and forth of his station like a well worn glove that itches in the wrist. He misses the camaraderie that bled into every interaction between the crew on Emrys’ ship. The disrespect that was a respect of its own.

He flees to his cabin, and to Elyan.

"I have a plan," he announces proudly.

"That is not a plan!" Elyan exclaims, when Arthur lays it to him in detail. Arthur takes up the rapier Elyan stole for him, sharpened and dangerous, and replaces the blunted one he was given. Arthur offers the cloth filled with food in return. Elyan tosses it onto the table. "This will inevitably end in our deaths!"

"Well, it's the best one we have, so it's what we're going with," he says. Elyan throws up his hands.

"You're just like him!" He says. "Reckless! Insane! I've about had it with you both!"

"Do relax," Arthur says. He tries to ignore the odd mix of insult and flattery that curls in him. "If all goes to plan, we'll all walk away without a scratch."

"And if it doesn't?" Elyan asks tersely, an eyebrow quirked and his hands on his hips.

"Then, well," Arthur gesticulates, "you were all going to die anyways." Elyan stares at him for a long moment, then inhales as if he intends to argue more. Arthur cuts him off. "We'll need some things. Obviously, I can't be seen getting them, or it will arouse suspicion."

"I am your humble servant," Elyan says through his nose, and dodges Arthur's shove. “What are you going to do?”

“I,” Arthur says, and pinches off a little crumb of bread for Kilgharrah, “am going to enlist the help of the best liar we know.”

Elyan looks him up and down, snorts, and takes a fine quill pen and writes down everything required for their plan on smooth parchment. He smuggles everything needed from the lower decks in a small leather bag, scratching it from the list as he goes, and at last finishes the list with a manacle key. The last of which he hands off to Arthur immediately upon his return.

Arthur, in the meantime, makes himself presentable. Or, less presentable. He aims to look as drunk as possible, with the addition of some method acting - which is to say drinking.

He swishes a large swallow of rum in his mouth to ensure it lingers on his breath and takes the bottle, and what remains in it, with him. He walks to the brig with the occasional stumble.

"I just want to talk," he tells the guard stationed there, "I just want to talk." The manacle key weighs heavy in his pocket. "I just need closure, you know closure? I'd like to have a conversation with my _captors_ before justice is served. Or what have you." He raises his eyebrows and takes a sip from the bottle to do something with his hands. The bottle is nearly empty. He poured most of it overboard.

"I'm sorry, my lord, the Commodore has ordered that you have no contact with the prisoners," the guard says. Arthur scoffs. The force of it sends him backwards a step, and he sways. He leans on the wall for support he doesn’t actually need.

"I'm your prince. I outrank him."

"He's working on orders from the King, who outranks you."

Arthur rolls his eyes. He says, "Do you really think the King asked, specifically, for you to keep me from seeing my, uh, _the_ pirates? In those exact terms?"

"Could have."

"Might not have," Arthur insists. "I'm the Prince. I have more control than the Commodore does. I could make you-- what-- what are you now?" 

"Just a mate, my lord."

"Really? That low?" Arthur grimaces. "You follow the Commodore's orders and you'll be promoted to a petty officer, say, three years from today? Possibly longer." He steps closer. "You do what I ask, I can make you a boatswain in a day." The guard shifts his feet. He's quite old to be just a mate, in his late forties in a position mostly held by young men. He’s changed his profession many times in life, never good enough at anything to settle, lazy and unmotivated and set back further with each life change by the disadvantage of his age. A boatswain at his age is nothing to sniff at, maybe even respectable. It's more than a change of rank. It's a change in how people look at him.

"I'm not sure," he says. Arthur sighs hard through his nose. He looks off and then back again. He licks his lips and tips back the bottle, but doesn’t actually drink.

"Hell, I could make you a chaplain, and you'd never see combat. You're comfortable with your scripture, yeah? You're a God fearing man?"

"I-- Yes, my lord, I am."

"Anything you ask for, I can give it to you. Just allow me--" he tilts his head in the direction of the brig-- "this."

The guard looks at the door that would allow entrance to the brig and then back to the prince. His hair is disheveled and his tunic is crooked but there's something vodka clear and venomous in his eyes, something that lingered in the eyes of the serpent that tempted Eve. A plot, a plan, some other noun.

"Do you promise?" The guard asks. 

"On my mother's life," Arthur says, and Arthur's mother is long dead and the guard never gives Arthur his name, anyways, but he is still granted entrance. He strolls in, one hand tucked into his pocket, peeking into every cell and doing head counts until he reaches Emrys.

Emrys is the only prisoner that is alone. He sits in the corner, his head tipped back against the wall, his legs splayed, his hands resting in his lap.

His nostrils are crusted with blood, and his tunic is stained with it. His knuckles are swollen and a thick rivulet of blood rolled some time ago down to his wrist and dried there. Upon a second glance, there is a gold and slightly bloody chain woven around Emrys' fingers that he twists and twists and twists. The entire right side of his face is an agitated, red and blue bruise. Only a fraction of those injuries were sustained when his ship first sank.

Even still, Arthur has never seen anyone exude so much effortless power.

Emrys watches Arthur through clumped eyelashes with cold steel in his eyes. He's tired. Exhausted, really. He's gotten the brunt of the crew's cruelty by his own design. Whenever they turn their sights on someone else, he jeers and bullies until he has their attention again.

Any of the pirates would gladly take a beating for their captain, if he would let them.

"Hello traitor," Arthur says, and Emrys sinks a little lower, relaxes into the wall. His chest squeezes at the way Arthur looks down at him, but he's determined to clamp it down and hide it away. "You look well."

"And you look like shit," Emrys answers cooly. He'd make a remark on the rosy air that hangs on to Arthur's clothes and follows him about, but there's too much blood in his nose for him to smell anything but iron. "I assume you've come to gloat."

"In a sense," Arthur says, and lowers himself to sit on his heels. He loses his balance and grabs the iron bars before he can fall. He can feel the stares of the other pirates burning into his back. "They're going to execute you tomorrow." Emrys clenches his fists and draws one leg to his chest. "By my insistence, of course. Can't give you the chance of an escape."

"Motherfucker," is Emrys' answer, given through a bitter laugh. Arthur waits for more, but it doesn't come. He can't say anything outright. He can't assume the rest of the pirates can play along, and he doesn't know if anyone from the crew is listening. He needs to get Emrys to catch on on his own. He presses a little harder.

"You'll be first, I hope. I'd hate for your execution to come when I've grown bored."

"You'd have me killed so easily?" he asks, half taunting and half curious. "You were my friend, you know." 

"Was that before or after you strung me along a web of lies for months on end?"

"A bit in the middle."

"You," Arthur says, and leans forward until he can tuck his chin over the iron bars, "disgust me from the inside out."

"I," Emrys says, and leans forward himself, "don't fucking care." He blows a strand of hair from his eyes. "Have you anything of import to say, or have you truly come to me for nothing more than to flaunt your growing horse's ass?" A muscle in Arthur’s jaw jumps. 

"There is one more thing," Arthur says. "That bird, we don't know what to do with it. It's extremely annoying." He sniffs and examines a bloody scratch on his thumb that he only makes worse with his worrisome picking. "So I have to ask what you'd prefer: dark meat, or light?"

After threats on his own life, accusations of his character, and cruel taunts, what sets Emrys off is a jab at that silly parrot. He jumps forward, pressing himself against the bars and forcing Arthur backward, reaching between and leaving a rusty stain on Arthur's tunic where he takes a handful.

"Listen to me, you smear of a man, if you lay so much as one _finger_ on Kilgharrah, I'll--"

"No, _you_ listen!" he says, raising his voice. "You'll be put to death at noon tomorrow, and I am going to be right there to watch you get what you deserve!" There's a shout from a cell to the side, and their eyes flick to the source and meet back again in the same moments. He withdraws his hand from his pocket and detaches Emrys from his tunic with a harsh grip. Emrys tries to yank away when he feels something press into his palm, but Arthur will not allow it.

"And it'll be on my signal," he says, eyes wide and imploring, "Merlin. Do you understand?"

Emrys stops tugging. He looks down at where their hands are connected, feels the shape of the object in his hand and finally, _finally_ understands. He curls his fingers around it. His eyes, hard and closed off, break like ice in a spring thaw into something bright and bottomless.

Emrys is quiet, and Arthur watches him in wait for some kind of confirmation that his message has been sent.

It turns out Emrys has been quiet because he's been gathering a wad of bloody saliva in his mouth, and he spits directly in Arthur's hair.

Arthur jerks away in surprise. His lip curls with his disgust and confusion as he stands. Emrys scuffles back into his corner.

"Get the fuck away from me, you royal prat," Emrys snarls, and rubs his nose with the back of his wrist. He pointedly pockets the key, and when he looks up at Arthur this time, he winks.

"That went well, I think," Arthur tells Elyan as he slumps against the door.

Elyan takes one look at the red drip down Arthur's hair and bursts into laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoink. 
> 
> i'm on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/)


	16. the shot heard round the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything goes very wrong, very quickly, and no one sees it coming. Except for you, who has been told beforehand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's my birthday! and i'm unable to celebrate it cause i'm working, so you guys should tell me some cool stuff you did today so i can live vicariously through you.
> 
> warnings for old timey surgery and mortal injuries

Valiant stands on the sidelines of the execution. His rank should allow him to stand closer to the Commodore or Prince Arthur, but because no one likes to listen to him and if put next to another person he will, inevitably, open his mouth, he has been told to guard the side and observe in solitude.

The pirates are positioned in a line with the Captain in the front and a tall, owl eyed giant of a man in the back. Their hands are locked behind their backs with heavy iron manacles. Some of them are calm, dignified, like the man directly behind the Captain who walks with his shoulders pulled back and his chin held high. Others are angry, like the brunette that lunges at a navy man when his shoulder is pushed too hard and earns himself a cracking hit across the face with the handle of a pistol.

Captain Emrys, however, is demure and silent. He says nothing when he is shoved. He stumbles over his own feet and winces when he is kept from falling with a harsh grip on his arm. The Prince snorts when Emrys flinches under a navy man’s hand. Valiant snickers to himself, feeling a sort of community with him in that moment, thinking that the Prince must be under the same impression as he - that this so called powerful man is nothing more than a cowardly worm wearing women's jewelry.

The truth is that Arthur is laughing in amazement at how easily Emrys can wrap a crowd of men around his finger. It’s frightening, in its own right, but in the way that glues Arthur’s eyes to the man in question and encourages him to take him in with a curious little interest in his gut.

“We’ll go by order of rank,” Leon announces, “with the Captain going first.”

Emrys’ lips pull apart in a grimace and his shoulders tense. The crew of pirates break out into a mutter, and Lancelot leans forward to whisper something to his captain. He receives two words and a glance in Arthur’s direction as an answer. Lancelot turns his attention to Arthur as Emrys so bravely steps onto the plank with his hands clenched behind his back. He tilts his head just barely to the side, looks him up and then down, and then purses his lips to hide a twitching smile.

Arthur is forever curious as to what was said. They never will tell him. 

Leon checks his pocket watch. It’s three past twelve. He takes his pistol from its holster and ensures it’s loaded. The pirates hold their breath. Arthur puts a hand on his forearm to stop him. They exhale.

“Commodore Edwards, I have an incredibly pressing question for you.”

“Anything, my lord.”

“As you know,” Arthur starts, and casually rests a hand on his hip, “I’ve a standing grudge with the Captain. His treachery and betrayal… it lingers at the forefront of my mind. And I fear that if I do not have the chance of retribution then I may never move on.”

It’s a good thing that Arthur has everyone’s attention, because in that moment Emrys rolls his eyes rather fiercely.

“I see,” Leon says, curious as to what point Arthur is trying to make. 

“I’d like to be permitted to take the first shot,” Arthur says, ignoring the dismayed cries of the pirates before him, “for justice.”

“You fucking  _ rat! _ ” Tristan hollers, having to be held back by three men. “You slimy, spoiled,  _ wretched _ \-- we should’ve known better than to ever trust a Pendragon!” It’s perfect, really, because he could never summon that level of vitriol if he knew Arthur’s true intentions. 

“Maybe you’ll be a better judge of character in the next life,” Arthur suggests with a cold kind of humor. His remark brings on another round of shouting. 

Emrys breaks character to quirk an eyebrow and poorly hide his appreciative grin before he can catch himself. He scrapes his fingernail over the key in his hand. Carefully, not moving an inch save for his fingers, he slips the key into the lock.

At the forefront of those turned against by Arthur, Leon is too smart to take his explanation at face value. But he also doesn’t know Arthur’s plan just yet, and does not know of the key hidden behind Emrys’ back, and does not know that there is a pirate in disguise waiting in the wings. He only knows that a man with one bullet can only do so much harm.

Leon hands Arthur the gun. 

“Just point and shoot, yeah?” Arthur says.

“Yes, my lord,” Leon says, reaching out to still Arthur’s wrist when Arthur looks down the barrel. Emrys licks his teeth. 

“Any last words?” Arthur asks as he steps close enough to be in point blank range, less than ten feet away. Emrys traces his figure with his eyes.

“I wish it weren’t so cloudy,” he says, and squints up at the overcast sky as he gives the key a half turn. 

“I’m about to kill you, and you’re worried about the weather?”

“Well, I would go on with the blubbering and the begging for my life and all, but I really am quite dismayed that I won’t get to see the sun a final time.” He sniffs and scuffs his boot on the ground to hide the fidgeting of his hands. “No one wants to die when it’s cloudy.”

“A very stupid man once told me that pirates  _ are _ no ones,” Arthur says, “so you should be happy.” Emrys snorts and looks away.

“Nice call back.” Arthur shrugs one shoulder.

“I thought it was clever.”

Emrys watches him intently. Arthur responds in kind. The air between them is pulled taut like a bowstring. Even Valiant, as far away as he is, feels light of breath.

“Can we get this over with?” He asks, so quiet the roaring ocean almost swallows it.

“I suppose. What say you, Leon, on three?”

Leon, looking between the two of them with the confusion of a man made to judge a sport he’s never heard of, clasps his hands in front and nods.

“Aye, my lord.”

“Alright then. Merlin--” Emrys shifts his weight to his back leg, holds the key right at the tension point of locked and unlocked-- “three.”

But there is no gunshot that claps over the ship and echoes over the ocean waves.

Arthur, quick as lightning, disengages the pistol, turns it in his hand, and throws it in an underhand. Emrys turns the key completely, and one cuff of his manacles comes loose from his wrist and hangs from his other. He winces when he catches the gun and the iron knocks against his arm. Arthur draws his sword.

And in one motion, Emrys jumps from the plank and yanks Arthur close with a handful of his tunic. Arthur stumbles over his own feet. The sword clatters to the ground. Emrys keeps him upright with an arm around his chest. He presses the barrel of the gun to Arthur’s temple.

“ _ No one move! _ ” He orders, and every navy man brandishing their sword or their gun freezes in place. “If you so much as  _ breathe _ without my permission, I’ll blow the monarch’s skull open.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Arthur scolds. “I had a plan!”

“Be more clear next time,” Emrys answers dryly. He curls his fingers in Arthur’s tunic, takes a deep breath that he may pass as fortifying, guiltily reveling in this closeness while it lasts. “Play along,” he says, the same words that Arthur will never know were passed to Lancelot as well. Arthur holds onto Emrys’ wrist, eyebrows furrowing at the warmth under his palm.

“Let’s all calm down,” Leon placates. His hands are raised in surrender and his face is slack with compromise. He doesn’t know if this was planned, yet, but correctly assumes it isn’t when he takes a step forward and the pointed jab of the gun against Arthur’s head makes Arthur hiss. “You must know that if you shoot the Prince we’ll have no choice but to kill you.”

“And you’ll still have a dead prince on your hands,  _ and _ the King’s wrath to contend with. Do you know the punishment for your own incompetence causing a mutiny that results in Arthur’s death?” Silence. Emrys cocks the pistol. “Would you like to find out?”

“No one is that insane,” Leon says.

“Can we not bet my life on that?” Arthur asks harshly.

“No, let’s,” Emrys says. He lowers the gun by a fraction, tracing Arthur’s sharp jawline, so that he can make proper eye contact with Leon. Leon’s fists are clenched and his back is prickling - whether it is with panic or rage is up for debate. “I want you to choose which is more important to you: Arthur’s life, or the end of ours.”

“Captain--”

“Now, Commodore,” Emrys demands. “Pick a hill and die on it.”

Leon’s in a rather tight place here, because this alone has proven how dangerous Emrys is - and how important it is to exterminate him. He is willing to threaten the Prince’s life, to put his own and his crewmates' lives on the line for a slim chance at survival. Emrys is not only a pirate or a scoundrel but an insane person, and his brand of self preservation puts everyone in his vicinity at risk.

And yet, Arthur is royalty, and bargaining his life for any reason is unthinkable.

Valiant watches Leon freeze. He hovers a hand over his pistol. The thoughts that run through Leon’s mind do not run through his, because he is simple, and he is violent minded, and he is utterly indoctrinated into the ideals of the King’s reign.

"If you don't say something, I'll kill him and choose for you," Emrys says. "Do you have any idea how much I  _ want _ to shoot this idiot? How much grief and pure annoyance he has caused me? I'll be glad to have him gone regardless of the means."

They snap at each other in hushed tones. Emrys kicks the back of Arthur’s boot. Arthur says, “Leon,” gently, calmly, as if he is no less safe with Emrys’ gun to his temple than he is on a bed of goose feathers, “what have they done to you that wasn't a defense from your actions? Even now, who is the aggressor, and who is simply trying to survive?"

"Your highness, your father--"

"My father is wrong," Arthur interrupts. "Regardless of their faults and misgivings these are people. Do you truly believe petty theft and maritime trade deserves a death sentence? And that we have the divine right to give it?"

It's an odd argument to make when one of the people in question has a gun to your head, but he makes it well. And Leon somehow finds himself listening.

"You have the chance to end this day with no bloodshed, Leon. You can spare so many lives by simply choosing to let these people go." He looks, with his eyes wide and terribly convincing, into Leon's own.

Emrys holds Arthur a little tighter.

Valiant pulls his gun from its holster.

“If I let you go, you have to promise to never return to Camelot. Go somewhere else, go  _ anywhere _ else,” Leon says, “and never speak of this to anyone.”

“Deal,” Emrys says. He glances at the back of Arthur's head and thinks to himself that there is nothing in Camelot for him, anyways, and he has no intention of returning when this is done. “Release my men.”

“Release the Prince.”

“Arthur,” Emrys says, “will be perfectly safe here, until my men are free.” He pats Arthur’s chest to emphasize his statement. Arthur shifts his grip from Emrys’ wrist to the back of his hand, squeezing, their fingers just barely slotting together, and Leon watches with a kind of amazement.

Leon gestures at the pirates, and a crewman born with three fingers on his right hand breaks formation to unlock their chains. Gwaine fakes another lunge to make him flinch. Tristan spits at his feet. Emrys whistles at him and holds out his arm, the one holding the pistol with a cuff still locked around the wrist. He aims the pistol skyward to not threaten him. It would be safe for Arthur to run, in that moment when Emrys’ hand is busied, but he does not. He stands in place, a human shield, because no one would dare open fire on the Captain if there was a chance it would injure Camelot's heir.

"You'll take one of our lifeboats," Leon tells Emrys. "Land is but three days east from here." Emrys blinks hard at that. He hasn't been keeping track of the passage of time or where exactly they are, and doesn't know which land is supposedly so close.

"Stand down your men, and I'll let Arthur go."

Leon raises his hand, and there is a wave of swords returned to their hilts and guns disengaged.

Valiant does not move.

Emrys disengages his own pistol and hands it to Arthur. He steps away.

"Your men are waiting for you, your highness," he says, gesturing to the navy men. Arthur looks to them with a forlorn acceptance that this journey, this adventure, is over, and he will never speak to Emrys or any of his men again. He takes a step towards them.

"Arthur, you son of a bitch!" Gwaine exclaims in the same moment he crashes into Arthur's side, his arms open wide to wrap around Arthur's middle. Arthur makes a show of trying to pull away, but he doesn't put any real, true effort into it, and does concede and rest his hand between Gwaine’s shoulder blades."You really had us going!"

“I could have sworn you’d see us all dead,” Isolde adds, coming in for a hug of her own. Percival, feeling left out, wraps all three of them in a tight hug that squeezes the air straight out of their chests.

“Yes, well, I aimed to be convincing,” Arthur says. There is a warmth in his chest that he will not admit to, and he sinks into the embrace. They all break apart when Percival lets them go. “I’m disappointed in you, however. You must know I would never say those things about any of you. Not ever.”

“I knew the entire time,” Trisan lies. 

“Just playing your part, were you?” Lancelot asks.

“Of course.”

“And all that about me being… oh, what was it?” Arthur asks, snapping his fingers in mock contemplation.

“A slimy, spoiled, wretched little rat,” Lancelot fills in for him.

“Yes, a slimy, spoiled, wretched little rat,” Arthur agrees, “that was all for show?”

“And nothing more.” Tristan insists. Arthur rolls his eyes, but his smile betrays it, and when he reaches out for him Tristan is happy to shake his hand.

Meanwhile, Leon and Emrys discuss the minutiae of the pirates’ release. Rations, which lifeboat they’ll take, where they are and where to go - all of the boring, technical things about being a sailor that people tend to skip over in stories and thus will not be mentioned here.

“I’d also like my bird returned to me as soon as possible,” Emrys says. He stands at attention, his bruised hands resting on his hips in demanding confidence. Leon, his arms crossed over his chest in confused withdrawal, scoffs.

“You’ll have to speak to Arthur about that,” he says, “he won’t let us near that thing.” Emrys’ lips curl upwards in a smile. He glances at Arthur, and his ribs creak as his lungs draw in a breath that doubles his chest in size.

“Really?”

“Quite,” Leon confirms. “He’s been violently protective of it. I thought it was his, but, I suppose,” and he looks Emrys up and down, “it makes sense that it had been yours.”

"Meaning?” Emrys asks with a confused laugh. Leon raises a brow. He cannot tell if Emrys is fooling him or genuinely doesn't know, but either way it doesn’t get him any closer to leaving.

"Nevermind," he says. He waves his hand. "Let us make an official inventory for your journey in my cabin."

"How  _ dare  _ you!" Comes Valiant's voice, finally brought out of his reverie by the sheer force of anger alone. He breaks from the crowd. "You stand here and break bread with the enemy!" Emrys looks to him with distaste.

"A little dramatic, I think," Emrys says lowly. Leon tucks his hands in his pockets.

"Valiant, I think you're forgetting your station," Leon says. Valiant raises the gun to aim directly at Leon. Leon takes a step back. Emrys doesn't move, grateful that for once the weapon isn't directed at him.

"No, Commodore, I think you've forgotten yours! You are in  _ no _ place to disobey the King!"

"Prince Arthur is safe and on his way to Camelot because of this deal. Would you rather the Prince be shot-- killed, even? For the sake of your pride?"

"I would rather we do whatever possible to rid this kingdom of treasonous criminals!" Valiant gestures wildly with the pistol, and a navy man standing next to him ducks. "You, sir, are nothing but a weak spined  _ coward _ that lacks the strength to do what truly needs to be done! And as such," he cocks the pistol, "I find you unfit for duty, and in need of dispatchment."

The last thing that is said before the trigger is pulled is an  _ oh, shit _ of realization from Emrys. 

That  _ oh, shit _ is promptly followed by a hard shove to Leon's shoulder as reflex overcomes common sense and Emrys jumps right into the path of an oncoming bullet.

For those who have never been shot, the feeling that meets Emrys in his side is akin to being stabbed with a hot poker straight out of a furnace, if that hot poker was driven in by a sledge hammer swung at full strength.

Emrys sucks in a ragged gasp, clenching one fist in Leon's tunic and the other clamped over his side. He looks down, his mouth agape, his eyes wide, and peeks under his hand. Blood wets his palm.

"That stupid motherfucker shot me," he breathes, and one of his legs loses the ability to support him. Leon catches him before he can slam into the ground and lowers him gently instead.

Someone screams. Lancelot, or Gwaine, or Arthur. Maybe Elyan. Maybe all of them. Elyan fights to escape the crowd of bodies. Gwaine makes a break for Arthur's dropped sword. Arthur engages his pistol and takes aim. Lancelot runs to his friend.

"You just saved my life," Leon says. His legs are folded awkwardly underneath, and Emrys' head rests in his lap. Emrys' eyebrows pull together like the closing of a curled fist.

"Don't flatter yourself," he grits out, huffing out a breath and sucking in another that he will hold in his chest just as tightly. "I would have done it for anyone."

Leon looks up at the pirate crew taking arms against Valiant, all motivated by fury and grief and so much love for the man in Leon's hands. He is forced to face the idea of what kind of man Emrys is, if his crew cares for him so fiercely - if a prince would turn his back on his own kingdom for him.

Leon orders, in a voice that is strong and certain, for his men to stand down, unless they all want to be charged with mutiny.

Valiant is punched across the face by Elyan, and skewered through the chest by Gwaine. Arthur fully intends to open fire, but cannot seem to will himself to pull the trigger. Isolde takes the gun from his hand and does so for him.

"Emrys, Emrys, hey," Lancelot says, kneeling beside and cradling Emrys' face in his hands and giving his cheeks soft pats, "it's going to be okay, just stay with me, buddy."

Emrys turns his face away. He reaches for Lancelot's wrist and stains it with his own blood. He tries to say, " _ I'm with you, stop hitting me _ ," but repeats, "Motherfucker shot me," his voice incredulous and enraged. His stomach is tight and hot and sick. He's so tense from keeping a lid on his own pain that he can't breathe.

Lancelot is acquainted with bullet wounds. And as such, he drops his hands from Emrys' face and rolls him just slightly to the side to look at his back.

Aside from old bruises and scars, it is unmarked.

"I have good news my friend," Lancelot says, his voice wavering, "the bullet finds you so charming it has decided to stay within you."

"There's no exit wound?" Leon asks.

"Fantastic," Emrys says, still managing to be sarcastic. "Do send my mother some flowers, will you?" His face pinches and he sighs through clenched teeth.

"You are  _ not _ going to die," Lancelot scolds.

"He's going to die?" Arthur asks, devastation and worry bleaching his voice, seeing Emrys' bloody hand and grimacing lips and coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the pirates behind him.

"I'm afraid so," Emrys agrees.

"No, he isn't," Lancelot says. Emrys looks up at him, eyes painfully blue and glazed in the midday sun. "You aren't."

"I can help," Leon says. He looks up at Arthur. "Captains in Camelot must train under a surgeon for half of a year, in case of emergency. I can--"

"No," Emrys says, shaking his head, "no, no. No one, especially not  _ you _ , is going to go digging for a bullet. I'd rather die."

"Come on, Emrys, you do this all the time," Lancelot says.

"To others!" Emrys protests. "I'm not letting someone with six  _ months _ of training stick their fingers-- does this idiot even know basic anatomy?"

"I'm still right here," Leon reminds him, though Emrys hasn't forgotten.

"We're doing it," Lancelot tells Leon. "We'll prepare a room."

"My cabin," Arthur says. "Best on the ship."

"Your cabin it is," Lancelot agrees. He worms an arm under Emrys' back and under his arms. He tugs him up, and both Leon and Arthur aid him. Emrys loudly protests, but leans heavily on them in order to walk.

"He'll be alright," Isolde says quietly, and does not have to look to find Tristan's hand. "Weaker men have survived worse."

"As long as that poor excuse for a surgeon doesn't kill him," Tristan remarks.

They knock the bowl of fruit off of the table and Emrys is corralled onto it, not putting half as much heart into the struggle as he would have but five minutes previous. After all being shot is, ignoring lethal, painful and exhausting.

Lancelot and Arthur linger on either side of Emrys, still helping him up onto the table. Leon departs to wash his hands.

"Give me that," Emrys says, and points to a bottle of wine just out of reach. When it's handed to him, he yanks out the cork with his teeth and spits it over his shoulder. He tips the bottle back and drains a good half with long, desperate swallows, then catches his breath and finishes the rest. Purple escapes from the corners of his mouth and rolls down to his chin. He wipes it away with the heel of his palm. He leans heavily on his shoulder, entire body weak and slumped. "I hate you people," he says to no one in particular. His face is a beach sand kind of white. Lancelot rubs his shoulder. Arthur reaches out to take his hand, but withdraws before they ever touch.

Leon returns with a rolled up sheet of leather, similar to Emrys' own but not identical in that the leather is pristine and polished rather than worn in, betraying how infrequently it is used. The sight of Leon triggers a line of tension to combust up Emrys' spine.

"Are you sure you can hold him down?" Leon asks. He comes to a stop next to Lancelot. Lancelot nods. Emrys grunts in pain and digs his heels into the table to push away from him. 

"If you fucking touch me I'll bite your fucking cock off," he threatens, eyes wide and primal in their dark rimmed sockets. Leon falters. Lancelot and Arthur exchange a troubled look. "Your bloodline will end with my fucking teeth, you hear me? I'll--" 

"I almost forgot," Lancelot says, and makes quick work of removing his belt. He folds the leather once over end and shoves it into Emrys' mouth. "Don't want you to hurt yourself." 

The look he receives is murder.

"This is going to get gruesome," Leon informs them. Lancelot squeezes Emrys' shoulder one last time before moving to put his hands on Emrys' shins. "No matter what, keep holding him down." Emrys grumbles something unintelligible and cruel behind the belt. His eyes rove around the room, unable to settle for the anticipation and the restless fear. He meets Arthur's gaze for a moment as Leon pushes up his tunic to expose his wound, desperate, pleading. Arthur leans over him to press his shoulders into the tabletop. 

"Sorry, mate," Arthur says gently, and Emrys' eyebrows lower and he looks away in anger, uninterested in showing his dread if it isn't going to get him anything.

Leon takes a breath to quell the shaking of his hands. He can't help but feel like his own head is on the line with how invested the pirates are to Emrys' survival.

He takes from his kit a pair of pliers made specifically for retrieving bullets, because these are violent times and everyone feels the need to shoot someone else over every little thing, and rests a steadying hand on Emrys' stomach. Emrys squeezes his eyes closed. He takes Arthur's hand, and Arthur twists to hold him back.

"Everyone brace yourselves," he says, and presses in.

Emrys' body goes rock solid.

Lancelot leans his entire weight on his legs so he cannot kick. Arthur pushes down hard to keep from being thrown off. Emrys tightens his grip on Arthur's hand until he can feel his bones grinding together. He leaves deep bite marks in Lancelot's belt trying not to scream. It is unlike any pain he's ever felt. It's invasive and thick and burning, and completely unrelenting. He breathes in deep through his nose, and the forceful exhale through his mouth is a sob.

For what it's worth, Emrys  _ tries _ to keep his head. He knows that fighting will only prolong his suffering. That the more he squirms and writhes the less likely Leon will be able to find that bullet.

But it's one thing to think you'll be calm and still when under the knife, and a whole other to actually  _ be _ under the knife.

Emrys is not a particularly big or strong man for his height. Both Arthur and Lancelot, almost at level with him, outweigh him. Despite this, he manages to put up a fight against them that leaves both men sweating. Arthur has never seen a surgery before, not one he wasn't the subject of and not one so intense. He isn't as certain of procedure, doesn't know that it is no true cause for concern when Emrys' every breath comes out in agonized cries and tears slip unbidden from the corners of his eyes - why would it not be, when he is in such pain?

The tip of the tool scrapes against the bullet, but at a particularly hard jerk from Emrys he is unable to grasp it.

"You need to hold him down!" Leon snaps, knowing that every missed poke and jab only puts Emrys in a worse shape. Arthur blinks away panicked tears. He cannot take the sight of anyone hurting so much. It would be chilling, if his heart were not beating so fast and his mind were not moving at double speed.

"You're hurting him--"

"Arthur," Lancelot says, even and practiced and oh so very frustrated, "God willing he isn't going to remember any of this, so set your feelings aside and  _ hold him down _ ."

Arthur presses his lips together. His lungs burn. Emrys is unable to control his own fight or flight, thinking of nothing but his own pain and the quickest way to end it. Lancelot is right - Emrys has long blacked out, and will recall no part of his surgery.

"I've no stomach for this," he tells Emrys as he returns his weight to the man's shoulders, having the most typical thought an adventurer can have: that all this excitement and adventure is far too tiresome, and he'd be happy to never go through any of it ever again. "None at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


	17. all for one (and one for all)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, too far is just enough.
> 
> Or, in less pretentious phrasing, sometimes you have to be pushed past your breaking point to be put in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm posting this today instead of sunday bc y'all have waited LONG. ENOUGH. for a new chapter from me. i'm so sorry. i won't go into it, shit was just crazy. greener pastures i hope.
> 
> 3 more chapters left!

When Leon manages to remove the bullet, Emrys relaxes. He lifts his head to look at the round, bloody metal in Leon’s hand. He takes a relieved breath. Then he takes another one.

And then he promptly loses consciousness.

His head _thunk_ s on the table and every limb goes limp. Lancelot releases his legs. Arthur lingers, for a moment, awed at how Emrys’ face can go from so tightened with pain to slackened and peaceful in mere seconds. He brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes and back behind his ear. Leon gets to work on closing the wound, muttering to himself that he hopes Emrys will wake up after this.

Until he does, both Lancelot and Arthur stay with him. They lay him in Arthur’s bed and sit shoulder to shoulder as they watch his chest fall and rise.

"I can watch him, you know," Arthur says quietly, as if he's afraid to break the silence too severely. "You can get some rest." Lancelot doesn't move.

"No," he says, eyes intent on Emrys. "He's my brother."

Arthur glances at him. His eyes are hollowed out like that of a ghost, his eyebrows pulled together, his lips in a thin frown. He taps his foot in a rapid beat on the floor and his leg jumps with the movement. He looks like hell.

"He's lucky to have you," he says. Lancelot picks at the dirt underneath his fingernails.

"And you, too," he says. “We would’ve died without you.” Arthur snorts, slides down in his seat.

“It was the right thing to do. Anyone would've done it,” he says.

“But _you_ did,” Lancelot answers, and his eyes are so firm that Arthur has to look down at his hands. A pause, and then, "I'm sorry." Arthur doesn't have to ask to know what he's apologizing for.

"Oh, who cares," he decides. "You gave me more than you ever took away."

  
  


Emrys wakes up with a pounding headache and a groan. His very bones ache, his tendons scream. His mouth tastes of spoiled mustard.

The first person he sees is Arthur, leaning over him and watching him with wells of concern in his eyes.

"Are you alright?" Emrys croaks, and a laugh breaks free from Arthur's throat. 

" _Am I alright?_ " He asks. He cups Emrys' jaw in his two hands. His cheeks squish, and Emrys pulls away with a snorting laugh of his own. "Emrys, you could've _died_."

"Old news," he says with a dismissive wave. He shifts and props himself up on his elbow. "Anything could have happened since. Met the kraken, had a mutin-- mm." Emrys' lips go white. He presses them together. "Bucket," he says, and holds a hand out.

"What?" Lancelot and Arthur say in unison.

"Bucket," Emrys repeats, his voice rising in urgency, and waves his hand. "Or a-- a bowl, or anything so I don't--" 

He gratefully takes the bowl pushed into his hands by Lancelot, and not a moment too soon. His shoulders tense and his chest pulls as the contents of his stomach have a footrace up his throat. Arthur reaches out and pulls Emrys' hair from his face. He holds it at the base of his neck. This is uncommon for Arthur, who finds vomit to be rather disgusting and has never really taken care of anyone else in his entire life, but in the moment it happens he doesn't once question whether or not he should.

Emrys spits a final time into the bowl, hanging his head and breathing hard. Arthur's thumb just barely rubs his nape.

"I'm sure that's a good sign," he says. Lancelot takes it from him, looking between captain and prince the way everyone seems to be doing these days.

"I'm going to get rid of this," he says, and stands. "You two… catch up." He ducks forward and kisses Emrys on the top of the head, then pointedly crinkles his nose and wipes his mouth on his tunic sleeve. Emrys lands a light punch on his thigh. They both grin before he turns away. The two men left in the room watch the door close.

Contrary to popular belief, _I love you_ is only a sentence. It is meaningless and empty without intention. It’s the intention that gives the words any weight, the deeply felt affection, the desire to care and admire and make it known.

That is why when _I love you_ is said, it is sometimes woven and hidden behind much more unassuming words and actions rather than uttered aloud.

Keep this in mind.

Emrys runs his hand through his dirty hair with a grimace and makes to sit up. Arthur stops him with a hand on his chest, his thumb and the tip of this index finger just barely touching his bare skin, and urges him back onto the bed.

"Don't," he says, "you'll hurt yourself."

Emrys gives him an exasperated side eye as he does what he's told. He scratches a splash of blood on his tunic that's dried and gone hard.

"Really, how is everyone?" He asks.

"I wouldn't know," Arthur says. He pulls his tunic sleeve over his hand. "I haven't left." He is looking down at his twitching fingers and doesn't see Emrys' eyes soften and take him in as if he is a mural on a church wall, holy and grand.

"Arthur…" he says.

"I had to know you were safe." Arthur smiles at him, and his voice is shaking when he says, "For a moment there, I thought we'd lost you."

"And be rid of me so easily? I don't think so," Emrys says.

He reaches over to pat Arthur on the knee, but the twist he has to make to do so sends pain splitting across his middle, and he's clenching his jaw and clutching his side. He feels quite terrible, in that moment as he waits for the radiating tug and heat to subside, much too dirty and foul smelling and taking up too much space. He holds his face in his hand and presses his fingers into his eyes, as frustrated and embarrassed as he is miserable.

"I'm sorry you're seeing me like this," he says. "I must look quite pathetic." Arthur huffs a light laugh, because he could not put into words how wonderful he thinks Emrys is, how beautiful even now, and it is so pathetic that he should be the one apologizing.

"Oh, please, I couldn't possibly lose any _more_ respect for you," he says. He shifts closer in his seat and takes Emrys' hand in his, and Emrys does not move his eyes from Arthur's as he spreads his fingers and allows them to lace together. "What you did back there, holding me hostage," Arthur says. "That was brilliant."

"Couldn't have done it without you throwing a gun at my head," Emrys says. His lips quirk in a smile, and he rubs his thumb down the side of Arthur's index. He looks up at Arthur through his eyelashes, a playful glint fighting past the fog of fatigue in his gaze. "What was your plan, anyways?"

"We were going to take over the ship.”

“ _We?_ With your sword and my single bullet?”

Arthur pulls a bag from his pocket. He opens the bag, turns it over end, and a handful of musket balls and gunpowder rounds fall out and onto the bed. Emrys stares, slack jawed, and then beams.

“You’re absurd.”

“It would’ve worked,” he says. “I had Elyan waiting. He was going to jump in - _was_ , before you ruined everything - and free the rest of the crew.”

“And then?” Emrys asks, 

“And then,” he says, looking off, floundering for the words, “well, battles can be unpredictable, and it’s best not to have such stiff procedures when anything can happen--”

Emrys cuts him off with a laugh, his head falling backward.

“You had no idea,” he tells the ceiling, incredulous. His head tips forward again. “You’re lucky I stepped in when I did, or you would’ve killed us all.”

“Surely I would’ve thought of something,” Arthur argues. Emrys hums, with an unconvinced pout.

"Let me just get this straight," Emrys says. "You came up with half of a harebrained scheme, hoping you would think of the rest off the cuff, and bet all of our lives on it?"

Arthur goes to argue, tilts his head as he realizes that's precisely what he did, then puffs his cheeks out and looks away in embarrassment.

"My, my, Arthur Pendragon," Emrys says, and tugs Arthur's hand until he looks back at him, "we may make a pirate out of you yet." Arthur deigns to smile.

"Careful, Captain, flattery will get you everywhere," he says.

"Everywhere?" Emrys asks, and his voice is a tease but for the barest second he looks at Arthur's lips and the very air around them doubles in weight and they look away, pull into themselves, both embarrassed for thinking of such a thing at such a time and assuming they were the only one who leapt in that direction.

Emrys lays back, or, rather, lets himself fall backward and lands with a creak of the bed. His hand drifts to his neck where Gwen's necklace hangs, tracing the details in the clasp and pressing his thumb to the blunted end of the dagger held in the golden hand. Arthur watches him, his own hands fiddling in his lap.

"You still have that?" Arthur asks. Emrys closes his fist over the clasp and nods.

"It was in my pocket," he says, "I'd forgotten about it." He looks at the ceiling, his lips separated by a thin break, his eyes flicking from beam to beam as he tries to categorize all that he has lost. It's hard to do so, when it is everything. Every time he thinks back on it again he remembers another piece of his life that he will never see again. Clothing in fabrics that cannot be exported, books that are no longer in print, jewelry that has more memory in the metal than worth. Years to acquire and minutes to lose. "It's all I have, now," he says, and though he's known this truth for some time it's uttered like a realization. Perhaps because he's yet to say it aloud.

"This is all my fault," Arthur says. "None of this would have happened if it weren't for me."

"That's not true," Emrys says. "No more than mine, or the Commodore's for that instance. We're all playing the role given to us by the society in which we live - outlaws, soldiers," he nods to Arthur, "princes. It's merely how the world works. We were foolish to think we could change it." He doesn't say what he means, then, but only because it's rather obvious. It was foolish to think that a prince could run away from home and play the hero for a maid, that she would fall into his arms and they could be together as they never could before. It was foolish to believe that the monarch of a kingdom could befriend its political enemy. It was foolish to believe that very political enemy could stick his nose in the royal family's affairs and not be burned.

All of it was so incredibly foolish and naive.

But all hope has a certain kind of foolishness to it. And the world cannot turn without hope.

And for all Arthur has learned, he still has a little foolishness left. And that leaves plenty of room for hope, and for Emrys' words to finally lock in an idea that's been growing and rattling around in his skull like a pebble in his shoe.

The idea that things could be done better - that _he_ could do better.

"What if we could?" he asks, his eyes wide and boyish. "What if Camelot was a kingdom of peace? Of-- of equality? Where no one lived in fear of the very people meant to protect them?"

"What if it rained red wine and brothels were free?" Emrys shoots back, an exaggerated wonder on his face. He slackens when Arthur leans away. "It's never going to happen, Arthur. Not until you're king, at the very least, and your father is still in good health."

Arthur's gaze is even and dead serious.

"I know," he says, and in a mirror of the brig he waits for Emrys to understand what he’s implied.

When he does, he ducks his head and looks to and fro as if they could be overheard, in this tiny closed off room.

"You want to depose the king?" he says in a stage whisper, horrified. "Arthur, do you have any idea what you're--"

"Yes, I do," Arthur says. He nods to the side. "Well, partly. But I _do_ know that Camelot doesn't have the leader it deserves. All I have to do is give it one."

"It's not that easy!" Emrys says. He props himself up on his elbow and starts listing on his fingers. "You need a plan, you need supporters, you need-- what if you kill your father, and are convicted of regicide, and Camelot is thrown into civil war? What if you come to power and are stonewalled by your father's men? What if your father kills you first? What if it all goes wrong?"

"What if it doesn't?" Arthur asks. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "What if I'm accepted by my people? What if my father abdicates? What if it all goes right?"

"You can’t promise that," Emrys says. Before it is assumed that the King would ever possibly abdicate his throne - know that he would not. "You may do what you wish, but you'll not have my support. Or that of my men."

"That isn’t for you to decide," he says. "If they wish to aid me, then they will. Your word isn't law."

"It is when you're planning to kill us all," Emrys hisses between his teeth. "They're good hearted, and they love you, and they'll die for you if you ask. My duty is to keep them alive.”

"I know I can't ask them to give their lives--"

"Then don't," Emrys says. Arthur's jaw flexes.

"You're being a coward," he says, not in a way that is cruel or purposefully hurtful. But that’s worse, because it is so matter of fact and fully believed that Emrys feels like the sniveling worm he was pretending to be at his failed execution. "You're scared, and you're being a coward." Emrys curls his lip in distaste.

"Cowards stay alive. If I were more of a coward, I wouldn't be lying here right now."

"And Leon would be dead," Arthur says. "You saved his life--” he pointedly ignores the _debatable_ from Emrys-- “He's alive, right now, because for one moment you were brave. You could do that with an entire kingdom.” Arthur takes Emrys’ hand in both of his own. He smiles, something boyish and foolish between his teeth that makes it oh so hard to say no to. "This never has to happen again. All the pirates who were killed the way you almost were today, there never has to be another. One moment of bravery for countless lives. Is that not a worthy transaction?"

"I can’t lose anyone else-- Arthur,” Emrys pleads, demands almost, curling his fingers over Arthur's because he just can't help himself, “I _won’t_.”

Arthur’s lips twitch down. He interlaces his fingers with Emrys', unaware of himself as he rubs his other hand over his knuckles and down to his wrist and back again. He takes a breath.

“Emrys--”

“ _What are they saying?_ ”

Both men freeze. They glance at each other, glance down at their linked hands, and then snatch away from each other with burning ears and restless eyes.

“ _I don’t know!_ ”

“ _Maybe if you’d shut up you could hear better!_ ”

“ _Percival, you’re stepping on my foot!_ ”

“ _Oh, I’m sorry._ ”

“ _For fucks sake, I can’t hear a damn thing!_ ”

Emrys, who crossed his arms over his chest and pressed his finger to his lips as he listened, now clears his throat. He looks casually between Arthur and the door.

“Arthur,” he begins loudly, “do you think my crew knows,” and his voice rises again, “that sound may pass through a door _both ways?_ ”

Silence.

A cough.

“Are you still there?” He asks the door. A fond smile quirks his lips, and Arthur’s heart tightens at the sight of it. 

“We’re sorry,” comes Lancelot’s voice.

“Come inside,” Emrys says. He puts more effort into sitting up, then, his eyebrows pinched and his chest cramped with the pain of it. He raises his hand to hold off Arthur when he moves to help. 

The door opens, and the first to pour through are Gwaine, Elyan, and Isolde. Elyan comes to lean on the back of Arthur’s chair. Gwaine crawls over the bed and comes to sit next to his captain. Next are Tristan, Lancelot, and Percival, and surprisingly enough, Leon. Lancelot sits on the foot of the bed with his legs crossed. Tristan leans back against the table in the center of the room - still dirtied by bloody rags and boasting a long score in the finish from a buckle in Emrys’ boot - and Isolde leans against his chest. He loops his arms around her waist, and she clasps her hands over his. Percival takes the chair that Lancelot left.

Leon stands quite awkwardly to the side.

“Uh, my lord,” Leon says with a wave, when he notices Arthur’s startled gaze. “Doing well?” He asks Emrys. Emrys distractedly touches his side.

“If your fingers are any measurement to go by, you must be a lady killer,” he answers dully. Leon gives a nervous laugh and scratches the back of his head. He isn’t a hit with women - or men, for that matter. Much like how Elyan doesn’t understand the fuss about women, Leon doesn’t understand the fuss about anyone. He’s nearing his thirties, now, with no exploits in the past or on the horizon, and he’s incredibly happy about it.

In terms of eavesdropping, the crew aren’t a concern. Leon, however…

“How much of that did you hear?” Arthur asks. Leon licks his lips. He looks to the door.

“Should anyone ask? Nothing at all,” he says. The pirates exchange impressed looks. “But I advise you not to continue.” They all roll their eyes, a mutual feeling of _there it is_ passing through them.

“Look at the Commodore, talking sense,” Emrys says. “You can’t do this, Arthur. Your father is, and I hate to say it, incredibly clever. No matter how much he may mistreat the people of his kingdom, he’s made them believe that they deserve it, and they don’t know any different. Your people, _his_ people, think that he’s a good king. They may need you, but they certainly don’t want you.”

“Then I’ll lead by example,” he says. “Who says I need a kingdom of supporters to take the throne? I have you on my side - and if Leon can convince his men to follow me, we’ll have an entire ship crew as well. That’s more than enough to take the throne. And the rest--”

“The rest is only the most important part,” Emrys says. “You could be deposed or killed by your father’s advisors. There could be riots. Am I speaking in french, here? Because you don’t seem to be understanding me.”

“My people may not appreciate a better king, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have one. People don’t deserve to suffer,” he says, directing his voice to the pirates in the room as if pleading his case to a jury. 

“I think we could do it,” Elyan says. “I’ve said it before, Arthur, you’re a good man. If you say you’d be a good king, then I believe you. I’m in.” Then, he points to everyone else. “But only if everyone else is in, too.”

“I’ll do it, if Elyan thinks it’s a good idea,” Percival says, and gets a grin in exchange.

“Emrys is right," Tristan says. "This could get us all killed.” Emrys gestures to Tristan in thanks, his gratitude barely escaping his lips before Tristan continues with, “But I’d rather die fighting for something important than be put down like a dog. I’m in.” Isolde nods, her agreement a given.

“We owe you our lives, Arthur. This is the least we could do, yeah?” Gwaine says.

Lancelot tacks on, “You’re family.”

That leaves Leon and Emrys, outnumbered and without much of a leg to stand on. After all, Emrys’ concern was his crew, and Leon did not wish to have treasonous talk overheard. But if the crew have already decided to throw themselves into the arms of death regardless, and the treason will be underway whether or not such talk is overheard - what reason is there to not participate?

“Christ, you’re all insane,” Emrys sighs, knowing that is precisely why they get on, scrubbing his face with his hands, “but you aren’t doing this without me.”

“Captain, your injury--" Lancelot starts, like he's watching Emrys offer to hold up a metal pole in a lightning storm.

"If we're all going to die anyways, I don't see why having a slight injury is a setback." 

"Can you even stand, brave leader?" Arthur asks, half tease and half genuine concern.

"There's plenty of time to heal between here and Camelot," Emrys snaps back. "This was your idea, if you recall."

"Well--" Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. He intended on the help of Emrys' _crew_ , not the man himself. He should've seen it coming. Emrys is far too pig headed and noble to ever send his men into battle alone, no matter the cost to himself. "Yes, fine. But you'll not over exert yourself."

"Commodore?" Emrys asks brightly, not so cleverly avoiding a promise. "Can we rely on you as well?"

"I…" Leon says, scratching the back of his head. "I suppose I'm in it now, aren't I? No going back."

"I don't think we can do it without your men, anyhow," Gwaine mutters, and Lancelot stretches his leg to kick him.

"They could mutiny," Leon says, "if enough of them disagree. They'll kill us all before we ever reach port."

The room falls silent. Arthur pushes his lower lip between his teeth with his thumb.

"This is, of course," Emrys says finally, lips stretched in a sly grin, "assuming we cannot convince them of the benefits of piracy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic inadvertently became a big found family (found-family-finding-more-family) fic. whups.
> 
> next chapter: the climax, father and son square off.
> 
> catch me on tumblr @ [sterlingdylan](https://sterlingdylan.tumblr.com)


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